


Mid Tier Slave

by pucktheplayer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Slavery, BDSM, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Dystopia, Gay Sex, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Sexual Slavery, Slash, Slave Trade, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pucktheplayer/pseuds/pucktheplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of inequality, the battle against the slave trade has finally been won!  Thanks to Edderday v. Kentucky, every American is now free to own slaves, opening up a huge new market in the middle class. Luckily for Zenith Slave Trade, everyone knows their marketing exec Ward Jacobs can pander off mediocre goods at affordable prices like nobody else--including the mysterious man who blackmailed him into taking the position.  Ward thought that taking the job would be worth it for a chance to win back the heart of Prance, the sex slave he'd loved and lost, but he hadn't realized it would also come with so many problems. His love's life depends on this campaign, but when your test product is a 6'4" ogre of a labor slave named Chastity, your graphic designer is Antebellum superstar Michael Sweeney III, and your office is regularly invaded by Staas, a Russian sex slave who calls Michael 'Daddy' and seems to think that every day is take your kinky relationship to work day, it's not easy to get the job done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Load of Crap

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the first four chapters of this story have been up for awhile on my Livejournal, but I am trying to move my internet presence over to AO3, so I am putting them up here along with the brand new Chapter 5!

‘Does the slave trade make you angry?!  Does it all seem so unfair?!  Stand up for your rights and say, “I deserve a slave today!”  …Your Slave! by Zenith.  Top quality slaves at affordable prices.  Use only as directed.  Improper usage may lead to product rebellion, anger, mood swings, or depression.  Side effects may vary.  See a certified slave trainer for details.’

The projector came to a halt, frozen on the image of a pair of collared slaves standing in front of a duplex with stupid grins on their faces, giving the camera a thumbs up.

Dear God, it was officially the worst jingle Ward had ever heard, and he hadn’t thought anything could beat Meow Mix.

Ward stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if maybe Donald’s little pixie of a personal assistant had slipped something into his coffee, then quickly passed the idea up as nuts.  Not that Donald might attempt to spike his coffee, but that anything so craptastic could actually come from his own mind.

“Please, please, tell me we have more to work with than this, Don,” Ward said, having a feeling he already knew the answer.  And guess what?  He didn’t like it.

The chubby bastard let out a nervous sort of laugh as he scratched the back of his neck, shifting around in his six hundred dollar desk chair like he had ants in his goddamn pants.   “What can I say?  Our last guy…  Well, he wasn’t you, Ward.”

“Damn right he wasn’t me,” Ward shot back, seriously considering ripping off Donald’s toupee and slapping him with it.  “When I signed on, you told me that the campaign was well under way.”

“It is!  It is!”  Donald began to pick at his goatee, one of his beady eyes starting to twitch.  For being CEO of the largest slave trader in America and one of the biggest sons of bitches around, he sure did have a lot of tells.

“You’re lying,” Ward said flatly.  “Either you be straight up with me, Don, or I walk.”

“Okay, okay,” Donald said, holding up his hands.  “When I said well under way… I meant that our marketing team has spent a considerable amount of time on the project.  We brought in the best of the best, and they’ve been working on the project since January—”

“But it’s a piece of shit,” Ward finished in a flat tone.  “It’s a week into August, Donald, and you want to debut the campaign in December?  That’s barely five months.  I’m a marketer, not a miracle worker.  I have no Jesus powers, my friend.”

“Oh, come on, Ward!” Donald said, leaning forward, his forehead scrunching up as he turned on his most earnest look.  “You’re the best in the biz.  The handbag king!  Nobody can make mid-tier goods fly off department store shelves like you.”

Ward let out a soft snort.  “This isn’t handbags, Don.  It’s *slaves.*  People don’t gotta feed their handbags.  That Marc by Marc Jacobs clutch can’t catch the flu and puke on your carpet.  You may not see much of a difference, but Mrs. Housewife and her beloved Average Joe will.”

“Oh please,” Donald said, waving the words away.  “I’ve had slaves my whole life.  They’re very out of sight, out of mind.”

“It’s hard to be out of sight, out of mind in a two bedroom apartment, Don,” Ward replied, exasperated.  “I know this whole Edderday v. Kentucky deal is like a double orgasm with a shot of rum to slavers, but you gotta be realistic.  Yeah, okay, the Supreme Court ruled that taxing slaves so that only rich schmucks can afford them is unconstitutional.  That doesn’t mean every soccer mom and small business owner in the country is gonna be lining up outside your door looking to grab themselves a slave.  Hell, dogs are too much work for me, and I’m about as average joe as they come.  Except for knowing all you rich bastards, of course.”

Donald laughed.  “Oh, please, you can’t fool a brother, Ward.  I remember our college years.  We didn’t call you the Harvard Heathen for nothing.  I know all about that stud hiding underneath.  If you didn’t work sixty hours a week, I bet you’d damn well have a pretty little slave boy or three tucked into your bed.”  He paused, wagging his eyebrows dramatically.  “Something that *could* be arranged.  A bit of a bonus, maybe?”

Yowch, that hit a little too close to home, and part of Ward was ready hightail it out of there right then, which was ridiculous.  Don was just babbling bullshit, like he always did.  There was no way he knew about Prance.  If he did, he’d be blackmailing Ward right now, not begging him, the bastard.

“Gee, that’s real generous of you,” Ward said dryly, making sure his usual mask of ‘I don’t give a shit’ was firmly in place.  “Because slaves are real hard to come by around here, right?  I’ll pass, thanks.  The whorehouse can’t drink the last of the milk or spill chili on my sofa.  Hell, you don’t even have to feed it.  But my point is… I’m not so sure you’ve got a market here, Don.  And if you do, then that,” he nodded in the general direction of the projection screen, “is not how you’re gonna pin it down.”

“Which is why we need you,” Donald said, fingers tapping excitedly on the desk.  “Ward, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!  For the first time in our country’s history, the middle class can afford to keep slaves!  All we have to do is make sure they can afford to buy them, too.  A nice, sturdy mid-tier line for your average everyman.”

“So you really do believe there’s a need to be met here?” Ward said doubtfully, really wishing he could have a cigarette.  Fucking e-cigs just weren’t the same.  “Please say you actually have the market data to back that claim up.  Some cold, hard numbers would really cheer me up.”

Don sighed.  “Look, all I know is that since GoldTri opened up those slave farms in China, our commercial import sales have dropped twelve percent.  Zenith needs something new, something big to make us stand out.”

“Have you considered investing your time and money into increasing your imports instead of diving head first into a market that might be dry as a bone?” Ward questioned.  “Or, with all the terrorist attacks on slave shops in the last few months, maybe I should say full of pirahnas?”

Donald took a sip of his coffee, frowning deeply.  “If GoldTri keeps opening foreign farms like they’re truck stops, there’s no way we can keep up commercially.  Period.  Not if we want to uphold our reputation for quality.  When you get down to it, GoldTri is just the slaver equivalent of a big box store.  We have to be the Macy’s.  Zenith’s real domain is the private sector.  Our company has always been known for its high quality, well bred stock.  Edderday has opened up a whole new market and we need to pounce on this before anyone else does.  We want your middle class man to want a slave like he wants a BMW and a three hundred dollar putter.”

“Those are some big dreams there, Donald,” Ward said, shaking his head.  “It’s gonna take marketing strategies that are both very subtle and highly effective to make it happen.  Seriously, we are talking miracles here.”

“So… will you still take the job?” Donald asked, looking a little worried.

Ward chuckled.  “Of course I will.  You know I love a challenge.  Besides, handbags are boring.”

o o o

The toilet one stall over flushed, and Chaz grimaced, covering his nose with his hand to try and block out the smell.  Yet another casualty of the enchilada plate the cafeteria was serving today.   A few hours ago, one of the guys had been so desperate to let it flow that when he discovered all the stalls were full of men in suits, grunting and clutching their stomachs, he’d actually busted into Chaz’s stall and took a giant crap right there in front of him.  It was a good thing that the ‘Out of Order’ sign on Chaz’s stall door was a lie, or he would have been in serious trouble.

Sometimes it really sucked to live in a public restroom.  Didn’t those jerks realize Chaz had to drink out of this toilet?

Chaz toyed with the metal cuff around his ankle, the chain binding him to the pot jingling merrily against the porcelain.  If he wanted, he could probably break it.  The chain was small and Chaz was big, but what would be the point?  This was his home now, the factory where he’d slaved before only a distant memory.  His new master had put him in here, and while Chaz may not have fancy training or a flawless pedigree, he knew how to be a good boy and stay put.

It was kind of weird, though, to be living in a public bathroom.  Chaz wasn’t even sure where the bathroom was, to be honest.  He’d been blindfolded when they brought him in.  From the way the men dressed and talked, he assumed it was some kind of office.  He’d never actually been in an office, only factories, but these guys dressed less like Bossman and more like the factory owner himself, which meant they were probably rich.

Chaz had overheard something about a test batch during the ride here, though he had no idea what that might mean, and it wouldn’t be any of his business if he did.  He was a slave, after all, and nobody had to tell him anything.  He was sort of curious, though.

This whole experience had been weird.  The moment he’d arrived at… wherever… he’d found himself in a room with a bunch of men in suits who’d spent the next few hours poking at him and muttering things about how to ‘market that.’  By the end of the day he was chained to a toilet, and that’s where he’d been ever since.

Chaz didn’t know what any of it meant, and the minimal service training he’d received had only covered things like what to do if a free man walked into the factory or how to respond if your boss gave you directions, not what to do if you were led blindfolded into a building, surrounded by strange men, then chained in a bathroom for three months.

One thing he *had* figured out pretty quick was that when a man came into your stall and pulled out his thing, it meant he wanted you to open your mouth so he could put it in.  Though he’d done it for Bossman before, Chaz had a feeling that he wasn’t very good at it.  The men had a tendency to sneer at him.  All Bossman wanted was to put his thing in your mouth and go.  These guys apparently expected more.

Chaz honestly didn’t know how body slaves did it.  He ended up puking every time and it made his throat really sore.  His mouth wasn’t the only place they put it, either, so sometimes his butt kind of hurt as well.  Most of the time he was okay being in the bathroom, but when they wanted to put it up there Chaz really started to miss the factory, no matter how filthy and smelly and hot it had been.

Chaz was startled from his thoughts by the sound of the bathroom door opening.  At this point he honestly didn’t know if he wanted it to be a guy here to stick his thing or someone else with the runs.  Both were kind of shitty options, no pun intended.  Maybe somebody just needed to piss.  That would be nice.

His hopes were officially shattered as the door to Chaz’s stall banged open and a lanky teenager smirked down at him.  Well, at least there would be no sticking.  Maybe.  Probably.  This one had never done it before, anyway, but there was always a first time, right?

“Hello, Chastity.”

Chaz bit his lip, chewing on it nervously.  It was hard to know if a visit from Staas was a good thing or a bad thing.  Apparently he’d actually gone to school today, as weird as the thought of a slave going to school was, because he was wearing his uniform, though the shirt beneath his red and gold cardigan was all wrinkly and he had turned his tie into a makeshift headband, holding back his white blonde hair.

Staas could be exceptionally beautiful, like some kind of shining angel, if he tried, but today the sagging pants that were barely decent and the big bruise on his cheek sort of ruined the look.

“What happened to your face?” Chaz asked since he had nothing better to do.  Staas was often terrifying, but he was also the only person who came and talked to Chaz.  He had a feeling that Staas thought of him as sort of a pet.

“Huh?  Oh, Jefferson punched me in the face.  Can you believe that?  If that bitch hadn’t sent me pictures of her tits then I wouldn’t have forwarded them to everybody!  How is it my fault his sister’s a slut?  Fuck Courtney.  What a ho.”

Considering the things Chaz had heard Staas doing with his master in the handicap stall, he wasn’t sure the boy had much room to talk, but whatever.

“Does Jefferson belong to your master?” Chaz questioned, not sure if he was supposed to know this person or not.  Staas' master was kind of famous, mostly for being really scary, but Chaz didn’t really keep up with those things.  It was hard to when you lived in the bathroom.

Staas rolled his eyes.  “No, numb nuts.  Jefferson is Senator Asswipe’s son, remember?  I told you about him.  We go to school together.  He’s my best bro.  Usually.  Not today.  I kicked him in the fucking nuts.”

Chaz winced, the mere idea of a slave kicking a Senator’s son in the nuts making him feel a little ill.  Wasn’t Staas afraid of *anything*?  Of course, he did belong to the boogeymen of slaves everywhere, so maybe nothing was scary compared to that.  He’d definitely gotten worse than a bruised cheek from his master.  Staas had used Chaz’s stall to change out of his uniform before, and Chaz had seen the rippling scar tissue that covered his entire back, the hundreds of long, thick scars crisscrossing everywhere and wrapping around his sides.  The pain must have been unbearable.

Chaz wasn’t sure what made King M3 so famous among free men, but in the world of slaves he was notorious for being an exceptionally cruel master whose expectations were so strange and so fleeting that it was impossible to please him.  Chaz had heard hundreds of horror stories.  How he had gone from being a factory grunt to living in a building ruled by King M3, Chas didn’t know, but it kind of terrified him a little.  Or maybe a lot.  Chaz actually held his breath every time the man came into the bathroom, silently praying he would pass by his stall just one more time…

“Smells like shit in here,” Staas said, shifting his weight, and for the first time Chaz noticed the boy was hiding something behind his back.  Dear God, don’t let it be a steak knife.

“It’s a bathroom,” Chaz said with a shrug, carefully dropping his eyes in an attempt to make it clear he didn’t want any trouble.  Not that it would help.  Staas was the epitome of trouble.

“It was those enchiladas, wasn’t it?  I knew better than to eat that crap.  I’m from Antebellum, and whatever they were calling that shit, it *wasn’t* TexMex.”

Actually, from the large numbers tattooed on the left side of his neck, Chaz was pretty sure that Staas was from Russia, not the Great Old South, but he wasn’t about to say so.  He was neither that rude nor that brave.

All Chaz really knew about Staas’ history was what he’d learned from listening to guys tell terrible tales to one another at the urinals, but considering he belonged to King M3, Chaz figured the stories were probably true.  He could totally see six year old Staas being kept caged up like an animal, King M3 only pulling him out to break his pelvis then fuck him stupid, laughing as little Staas howled and scratched and bit like a wild dog

Chaz shivered.  He’d take being chained to a toilet any day.

“You look hungry,” Staas said with a wicked kind of smirk that made it very clear he had something unfortunate planned for Chaz today. “Up for some enchiladas?”  He pulled a plate out from behind his back with a giggle, presenting it dramatically.  And, of course, Chaz’s stomach chose that moment to growl.

Fantastic.  The enchiladas of death had made their way to the front line.  He could spend the night starving or shitting.  What a choice.  Chaz was way, way too hungry to be picky, though.  Maybe he’d get lucky and it wouldn’t bother him.  He had a pretty strong stomach.

“Thanks, Staas,” he said softly as he took the plate.

Staas’ flashed another evil looking smile.  You’d have thought his ridiculous looking schoolboy uniform would make him look less like the devil himself, but in the end it just added to illusion.  “Anything for my favorite piss pot.”  He smirked.  “I better get going.  I’m gonna raid Hammersmith’s old office before the new boss shows up.”

“New boss?” Chaz questioned idly as he poked at the enchiladas with his plastic fork, trying to decide whether or not filling his stomach was *really* worth the load of diarrhea he would probably get out of it.  Man, he was hungry.

“Yeah, didn’t you hear?  Old Hammer Time got the boot.  They’re bringing in a new guy.  Word on the street is that when it comes to selling a shit product for way more than its worth, he’s the man for the job.  You really hadn’t heard about it?”

“Staas,” Chaz said as he swallowed a forkful of enchilada, hunger having conquered caution.  “I live in the bathroom.”

“Oh.  Right,” Staas said, brow furrowing up as if he’d somehow forgotten.  Then the evil smirk was back.  “Well, eat up, Chazzy Chas Chas.  At least having the shits will give you something to do tonight.”  He started out the door then paused and turned back around, his shit-eating evil grin bigger than ever.  “Oh, and just so you know?  It wasn’t the cafeteria’s fault.  I dumped a tub of laxatives in the queso, just for you, sweetie.  Hope you enjoyed the show, and the show after that, and the show after that, and its many, many encores.”

Chaz stared in disbelief as the boy practically skipped out of his stall, laughing.  Only Staas would give every rich man in the building the runs just to piss off one nobody slave.

Living in the bathroom sucked.

o o o

Ward let out a sigh as he watched the cars whiz by, squinting his eyes against the headlights as he waited for his chance to cross the street without earning himself a face full of dirty rainwater, or better yet, a one way ticket to the morgue.

New York City, center of the universe, a mecca of lung cancer waiting to happen.  If he was gonna stand out in this damn smog, he might as well have a smoke.  His lungs would be blackened either way, right?  A taxi driver slammed on his horn as he skidded to a quick stop, squealing tires dousing Ward’s pants with muck.  Dammit.

This city… They always said you could either love it or hate it, but Ward was sort of in the middle.  New York wasn’t exactly the monument of glory it had once been.  But then again, it was the city that never slept, and after a few hundred years with no beauty rest, the wrinkles started to show.

Funny how the Big Apple’s greatest years were back when it had been a heartland of slaves pouring into the docks from every direction.   South Africa, the Tasmanian Republic, Eastern Europe, the Roman-British Isles… Slaves of all colors and kinds had passed through the harbors under Lady Liberty’s watchful eye.  The late 1780s had been a golden era for the City, rivaling Charleston for trade of the most prosperous product ever farmed.  People.

Ward wondered idly if he could use that for the ‘Your Slave!’ campaign.  A return to the golden years?  They were lost but not totally forgotten.  New York still bore its marks of that great age.  Hell, Ward was looking at one of them right now as he waited for the light to change.  A few feet away there was a T-shaped piece of metal built into the side of an old brick building, a long abandoned whipping post.  The chains had rusted to nothing years ago, but the frame was an eternal reminder of those days.  A time when every man had been free to own a slave.

Was it possible for New York to become that great land of liberty again?  A place where any and all men had the right to own slaves like they had the right to bear arms?  Ward wasn’t sure, but after this whole Edderday v. Kentucky mess, all the big slave traders seemed to think so.

It was true that the disappearance of the everyday slavery in the North hadn’t been a result of disinterest or some insane idea of equality between men and slaves.  The Grand Old South and their sneaky tactics during the Civil War were to blame for that.

Ward had to admit it had been a clever ploy.  The GOS had methodically sold slaves born and raised on their massive plantations to unsuspecting Northern buyers and, when the seeds were thoroughly spread, given the signal for their still loyal slaves to turn on their new masters.  After the Plantation Slave Rebellion, the streets of Manhattan had turned into war zone.  No slave could be trusted, and their blood had run in the gutters.  Northerners had been wary of slaves ever since.  Well, not any more, of course.  Now, that stuff was history, just words on a page you memorized in tenth grade.

Even though Ward didn’t see slaves becoming the new handbag, it was true that people were fascinated by them these days.  Why wouldn’t they be?  Slaves had become a symbol of social status—if you owned a slave, you must be rich.  Literally.  There was no other way to own a slave, thanks to good old Lincoln.

Over a hundred years ago, the Taxation Proclamation had been put into place, demanding a tax from slave owners. That seemed fair enough, but the tricky part was that while the percentage rate was huge, it just happened to cap off at a cost that was well out of an average man’s reach but was pocket change to the very rich, creating a social inequality between your common man and the very wealthy—just as the eleven states making up the Great Old South had demanded in exchange for their return to the union.

Up until Edderday, only one city in the United States granted all citizens the right to own slaves without taxation.  Charleston, the capitol city of the Old South and a symbol of Antebellum’s might.

It was now technically possible for every major city from New York to LA to become another Charleston, which is what Ward knew Don wanted, but the people of Charleston owned slaves out of a sense of tradition and Southern pride.  They shouldered the effort of having to feed and care for their property as a reminder of their great heritage.  They were slavers, they were masters, they were *Southern.*

Ward could practically hear Dixie playing right now.

The North and the West couldn’t claim that same sense of pride, and they didn’t give two shits about tradition.  Northern housing was smaller, Western laws on the treatment of slaves were stricter, and your average urban household hardly had time to feed their damn fish, much less worry about what their slaves were doing.  Why should they pay to keep a slave for ten years, living shoulder to shoulder with them in small apartments and single bath households, when they could hire an illegal immigrant to clean their place once a week for twenty bucks and not have to worry about it?

But in the end, it wasn’t really Ward’s place to decide if everyday slaves were a market worth tackling.  Obviously the big guys had decided it was worth a shot.  It was just his job to make it happen, God help him.  But hey, he was always up for a challenge.

At least Ward knew how to go about it, unlike whatever fuckwit Don had hired before him.  You sold slaves the same way you sold everything.  It wasn’t rocket science.  Hell, every building within fifty yards was singing it right now, painted up like whores.

Welcome to Times Square, the bleeding uterus of marketing bullshit.

A naked woman smiled at him from a billboard high in the sky, delicate hands carefully covering her naughty bits as she whispered silent words in his mind.  ‘I will wrap my legs around you and fuck you ’til you scream.  And all you have to do is buy the right kind of dish soap.’

God bless America, holy land of all things gluttonous, the greediest nation in the world.

Ward chuckled to himself as he eyed the buildings around him, taking in all the promises made to be broken.  Buy these tennis shoes, and you’ll be young.  Buy this wax, and your car will turn into a Lamborghini.  Take this cruise, and women will cream their panties when they see your receding hairline.  Take this drug, and your aging, menopausal wife will want to have sex with you again.  Eat this hamburger, and we will love you forever.

Telling lies for fun and profit.  It was a beautiful thing.

Ward’s pocket began to vibrate, bringing him back to reality.  He knew damn well who it was, hell, that’s why he was here in the middle of goddamn Times Square instead of at home in his warm bed, but he really didn’t want to answer it, because if he answered it, then this whole sick scene would have to play out, and Ward really didn’t want that.

God, he was such a cowardly prick.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, bringing it to his ear.

“Howard Jacobs here,” Ward said in a gruff voice, fingers gripping the phone a little too tight.

“Hello, sir,” came a soft voice, soft enough that Ward could barely hear it over the groans of the city.

“Hello, Prance,” Ward replied roughly as he began to dig through his pockets for a cigarette.  A real one, not that plastic electronic crap.  Fuck quitting.  So they would kill him.  So what?  These days he didn’t feel much like living anyway.  “Where are you?”

“Three blocks down, turn right, sir.  I’m in the alley beside Dot’s Diner.  See you soon.”

Aw, man, not in a goddamn alley…  Ward’s face went red at the thought, but his dick went hard, too.  Shit.

Ward stuffed the phone back in his pocket and brought a cigarette to his lips with a shaky hand, swearing as it refused to light.  Motherfucker.

Finally, the end sizzled and Ward sucked in a quick lungful of Marlboro, blowing it out with a precision that spoke to his many years of practice.  Then he was walking—no, running—down the sidewalk, shoving aside old fat ladies and greasy Italians and Midwestern tourists and trussed up China dolls selling cheap jewelry or maybe ass.  He ran, because he wasn’t gonna let anything get between him and seeing his boy.

By the time he got to the diner, he was out of breath, lungs burning from not enough exercise or maybe just too much smoke.  He bent over, breathing hard and feeling stupid.  There was no reason to rush.  Ward could take three hours to meander his way down the block and Prance would still be there waiting for him.  Prance was good to him like that.

Unsurprisingly, Ward had lost his cigarette in the dash, but considering that he was still kind of choked for air, it was probably a good thing.  He needed to get to the damn gym more often.  Forty-six was practically ancient for a fag, and he’d been seeing a few grey hairs mixed amongst the sandy blonde lately.  He’d be a silver daddy before he knew it.  He damn well needed to keep himself toned if he wanted to get laid anywhere that he didn’t have to pay.

Speaking of getting laid…

Lungs beaten into submission, Ward ran a hand through his hair, trying to tousle it a bit, then let out a sharp bark of laughter.  What was he playing at, huh?  He wasn’t going on a damn date.  It didn’t matter how he looked.  Hell, he could look like Johnny Depp and Prance still wouldn’t want his schlong up there.

The good, honorable thing to do would be to never lay his filthy fingers on his boy again.  A long time ago, in a world far away, Ward had considered himself to be a good, honorable man.  But some things burned the soul and those big, green eyes, staring up at him in agony and confusion and fear from the bottom of those stupid, fucking, evil, horrible stairs had definitely left their mark.

Ward no longer considered himself good or honorable.  He wasn’t even sure he considered himself a real man.

He took a deep breath to steady himself as he stepped into the alley, grimacing a little at the scent of rotting bread and spoiled meat on the air.  The alley looked deserted, but Ward didn’t miss the way the loose trash had been sort of crushed down, making a subtle path toward the back of the alley.

Ward took another step, licking his lips nervously as he squinted his eyes, trying to see into the thick shadows.

Prance appeared out of thin air, also known as from behind the Dumpster, which Ward would have realized if he hadn’t been too high on seeing that pale, pretty face to think about it.

His boy had to be the most beautiful boy on the planet.  Prance’s eyes were green like spring grass, and his hair was all red and orange and yellow like fiery plumage.  His pale skin shone like the moon, minus all the craters and shit, and his lashes were like… like… Dammit, Ward had run out of pretty metaphors, which was fucking sad considering he had a Master’s degree in Marketing from Harvard.

What could he say?  Prance made him go out of his head.  If Ward was straight up honest, Prance wasn’t actually the most beautiful boy in the world.  Hell, he wasn’t really a boy anymore.  He’d be, what?  Twenty-four?  Twenty-five?

If you were looking to stick a face on a billboard, Prance’s jawline was a little too square, his nose a little too long, and his skin a little over freckled, as redheads tended to be.  He was sexy as shit, with a hard chest and wide shoulders and full, pink lips that begged to be wrapped around a cock, but he wasn’t like one of those picture perfect slaves from the Southern Plantation or the Isle of Boobs… Babes… Boners… Whatever.  The island where Zenith bred its top dogs.  But when Ward looked at him, he saw perfection.  Absolute perfection.

You know, except for the wheelchair.

Prance smiled and it made Ward’s heart jump, and his dick, too.  Prance’s long, red hair hung in a loose braid on the side of his head, and the green sweater he was wearing made his eyes shine like that spring grass Ward had been thinking about.  Or like hundred dollar bills, depending on whether you were a romantic or a cynic like him.  His boy’s jeans were skin tight, which only made Ward wonder who’d helped him get them on, and they did little to hide the fact that even daily physical therapy couldn’t make up for good old fashioned walking when it came to muscle tone.  In fact, it made it painfully obvious.  Big shoulders, strong biceps, killer abs, skinny legs.  The mark of a quadriplegic, put out there for all to see.

Of course, that might have been the point.

Ward was jerked out of his thoughts by a loud whimper from behind the Dumpster, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized the face peeking around the corner.

“Did you have to bring him?” Ward snapped as moved closer to Prance, glaring down at him with his hands on his hips.

Prance stared at Ward for a moment, then his eyes narrowed and he put two fingers to his lips, whistling.  “Dog Boy, come!”

Aw, shit.

Out from behind the Dumpster he bounded, leash dragging behind him, a big smile on his face as he began to nuzzle at Prance’s lifeless legs like he thought Prance could actually feel it.  Hell, maybe he did.  Ward wasn’t sure what Dog Boy did or didn’t know.  He never talked and Ward wasn’t even sure he understood words beyond things like ‘fetch’ or ‘sit’ or ‘bad dog.’  He always seemed oblivious to conversations around him, anyway.

Dog Boy just plain weirded Ward out.  He was okay with slaves, even ones who’d been done up all freakish by their masters with weird tattoos and blue hair and shit like that.  But raising a kid as a dog?  Seriously?

Dog Boy was no lap dog, that was for sure.  He was damn big, especially since Ward was pretty sure he was still a teenager.  Ward would say he was probably about six foot three or four, big boned and built like a linebacker.  He had dark hair and big, brown, puppy doggish eyes with little freckles sprinkled across his nose.  Ward would have called him handsome, if he acted like a man, but somehow Ward didn’t find the whole barking, scratching, fetching thing to be a big turn on.

“Seriously, Prance.  You know I don’t like that thing.”

Dog Boy just smiled happily, glancing back and forth between the two men like he didn’t have a care in the world.  Which Ward guessed he didn’t, being a dog and all.  He could only hope they didn’t make the kid shit in the lawn.

“No offense, Master, but ‘that thing’ is the only one standing between me and a knife in the gut from some loser looking to pawn my chair for fifty bucks,” Prance said in a flat voice, reaching up to play with the end of his braid.  “So,” he continued, obviously ready to get down to business.  “He wants to know what you have for him.”

Ward sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly.  “Well, you can tell him that the campaign’s a mess.  They have a target date of mid-December, and supposedly this team is—I quote—the best of the best.  But what they have is a steaming pile of shit.  Seriously.  You know those Depends ads where the old man uses the adult diaper he already pissed in as a parachute when his plane goes down?  This makes that look like hot stuff.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think somebody’s been sabotaging the project.”

Prance’s eyebrows shot up.  “Who the hell would be sabotaging Zenith’s campaign?”

Ward let out a laugh.  “You mean other than you?”

“I didn’t want to do this,” Prance snapped, then winced a little at his own tone.  “Sorry, master,” he murmured, obviously embarrassed.  Always the good little slave.

“I’m not your master anymore, Prance,” Ward said flatly.  “You don’t have to call me that.  And you can talk to me however you want.”

Prance’s shoulders tensed.  “I may have been raised in a whorehouse, but I do have some manners, *sir,*” he said in a low voice.  “I know my place.  Just… remember that I’m here because I have to be, not because I asked to be, okay?”  He looked up, those big, green eyes, so full of pain and hurt and sadness locking onto Ward’s.  “I guess it’s time for your prize.”

Ward swallowed hard.  Once again, the good, honorable thing to do would be to walk away.

Prance reached down and unzipped his jeans, slipping out his flaccid penis.  Once upon a time he would have been hard and leaking for Ward, but not any more.  Not ever again.  Prance began to try and push down the tight jeans, tongue flickering across his lips.  There was something hot about it, watching the deep concentration on Prance’s face, the little wrinkle that formed between his eyes as he struggled to free himself from the bondage of those tight, whorish pants.  Trapped in his own pants.  Trapped in his own skin.

Ward really, really should walk away.  Too bad he wasn’t a good, honorable man.

He squatted down in front of Prance’s chair and opened his arms, tilting forward toward his boy.  “Lean.”

Prance obeyed, letting his upper body fall against Ward’s, arms wrapped around his neck.  His breath teased Ward’s hair, making his heart speed up.  Prance used his arms around Ward’s neck to hoist himself upward and Ward tugged off his jeans in a swift, practiced motion, yanking them down almost to the knee.  He’d had a lot of practice at this, except it was usually next to the pot.

Ward glanced around the alley, frowning as he tried to figure out the best way to do this.  Why Prance had decided to do this in a fucking alley, Ward didn’t know.  Probably something poetic about him feeling at home in the trash or some shit.  That sounded like Prance.  Ward hated poetry.

“Boxes?” Ward asked finally, eyeing some old wooden crates stacked against a wall.

“Sure,” Prance replied hoarsely, and Ward lifted him up, the dead weight of his legs swinging as Ward carried him across the alley and carefully draped him over one of the crates.

It was time.

Ward swallowed hard as he unzipped his trousers, working them down until his half-erect cock was free.  Prance’s head lifted, up, mouth open in a silent offering, and Ward moved toward him, slipping his cock between those beautiful lips.

Prance’s lips tightened around him and he began to suck, suck, suck.  Ward groaned, thrusting deep into Prance’s mouth, knowing he could take it.  His boy had been good at this before, but now he was a fucking god.  It was like Prance had to make up for everything else with what he could do with his lips.  And maybe he did.  Who knew what Prance’s real master demanded of him?  All Ward knew was his boy looked hot as fucking hell.

Ward gritted his teeth as his cock slammed into the back of the other man’s throat, the choked gagging noises just making him want to fuck deeper.  He slipped out, rubbing his wet dick along the side of Prance’s face, purposely sliming his hair with spit and sweat and pre-cum.  “Yeah,” he whispered.  “Yeah…”  Prance’s head bobbed as he tried to catch Ward’s dick in his mouth again, lips finally closing around the head, cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard at it, running his tongue along the slit.

With a grunt, Ward pulled his boy's head all the way down, forcing Prance’s face into his pubes and holding it there as he listened to him gag.  “Had to… fuckin’ leave me… Left me… I’ll show you what happens when you leave me…” Ward mumbled, well aware that his words made no sense.  Prance hadn’t left him.  Ward had fucking sold him.  But hey, it was hard to think straight with your dick in somebody's mouth.

He pulled out with a pop and moved around to the other side, grabbing Prance’s ass cheeks and pulling them apart.  Cock still slick from spit, he didn’t bother trying to take his time.  It wasn’t like Prance could feel it anyway.

“Can’t even fucking feel that, can you?” Ward muttered as he slid in hard and fast.  He slapped his boy’s ass, hard.  No reaction.  “Fucking whore, can’t even fucking feel me!”  Ward’s eyes began to burn.  Uh-oh.  Here came the tears.

Ward wiped angrily at his face with his shoulder as he continued to slide in and out of Prance.  What was wrong with him?  How could he do this?  How could he have *done* this?  Oh, Prance…  “How do you feel?” he asked, words coming out choked.

“Nothing, master,” Prance replied in a dull voice.  “I don’t feel anything.”

Ward made a frustrated sound and slapped his ass again, suddenly angry.  “I don’t mean your fucking legs!  I mean… I mean…”  He slowed his thrusting, coming to a stop, then draped himself on top of the other man, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging him tight, dick still buried deep inside him.  “What does it feel like, Prance?” he whispered into his ear.  “Tell me what it feels like in here.”  He kissed his temple gently.

Prance let out a sigh.  “Master, please don’t do this.”  His voice sounded pained.  “You don’t want to know what it feels like.  You know you don’t want to know.”

Ward made out a frustrated sound, straightening back up and pulling his cock from Prance’s ass.  “Don’t tell me what I want and what I don’t want, dammit!  I want you to tell me!”

“No, master, you don’t.  We’ve done this before, sir.”

Ward moved back around, grabbing Prance by the hair and forcing his head up.  “I do,” he basically growled as he began to pump his dick with his hand.  “I do want to know!”

“No, you don’t,” Prance repeated stubbornly, green eyes flashing.  “I’m not going to do this again.  I’m sick of your angst fests, master.  Just fuck my goddamn face and get it over with.”

“I hate you,” Ward growled, still pumping his cock as he stared down at Prance.  “I hate you!”

“No, you hate yourself, master,” Prance said in a soft voice, his eyes filling with pity.

Fuck his pity.  Ward didn’t need or deserve his pity.  Prance was the pitiful one, with his useless legs and his useless cock and an ass he couldn’t feel!  Ward brought his cock up to Prance’s face and began to squeeze it in a way that he knew would bring him faster.  A few strokes later he was gasping as cum spouted out, running down Prance’s face and dripping into his hair.  Ward rubbed his wet, sweaty dick across Prance’s face as his boy grimaced.

“Don’t fucking tell me what I want, Prance!”

Off to the side, Dog Boy let out a whimper, and Ward kicked him in the side.

God, he was such an asshole.  He should be the one in the damn chair.

*  *  *

He should *never* have eaten those enchiladas.

Chaz sat on the toilet, gritting his teeth as another sharp pain went through his gut.  He hated Staas.  Staas was so mean.  He didn’t even feel sorry for him anymore for having to live with King M3.  Let him get butt fucked with a railroad spike.

Okay, he didn’t mean that.  But still, this was really not nice of Staas.

The bathroom door opened and Chaz looked up in surprise.  What the hell was someone doing in the bathroom this late?  The janitor had come by an hour ago, which meant it was definitely after ten.  Chaz tilted his head, trying to get a look at the person’s shoes.  He knew just about everybody by their shoes by now.

Chaz froze, his eyes growing wide as panic washed over him.  Apparently there would be no railroad spikes for Staas tonight.  Chaz would know those perfectly buffed saddle shoes anywhere.  King M3 was in the building.

“I’m sorry, Troy, if I could put you on hold for just a moment…”

The door to the stall next to Chaz’s opened and shut.

“Damn that brat, I am going to make him wish he’d never been born,” M3 muttered to himself, and Chaz winced as an unpleasant smell filled the room.  Apparently even psychotic egomaniacs got the shits.  The man cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, Troy, I had another call.”

Wow, M3 was smooth.  Chaz couldn’t talk like that with a pain like this in his stomach.  No wonder they called him the King.

“As I was saying, there’s been a slight hitch in the project.  Apparently Don finally realized that Hammersmith’s a complete and total idiot.  All work has been put on hold until this Howard Jacobs fellow has been put into place.  Were you able to find anything on him?”

M3 went silent for a few minutes, only the occasional ‘hm’s letting Chaz know he was still on the phone.  Finally he spoke again, voice a strange mixture of sarcasm and amusement.  “Oh my, what an upstanding gentleman.  It will be *such* a pleasure to work with him.”  How M3 could sound that condescending with his pants down around his ankles, Chaz did not know.  “I can tell already we’re going to be the best of friends.  Handbags, hm?”  A short pause.  “Oh, I can absolutely understand how he could make a name for himself off of handbags.  Well, of course you don’t.  You’re sensible, a rarity in this world.  Could you please excuse me for one moment, my son is calling me.  Thank you, dear.”

There was a short pause and then M3 spoke again.  “Hello, Staas.  Just so you know, I am going to rip the meat from your bones.”  His voice was disturbingly cheerful, with an underlying edge to it that made it very clear he was not amused.

Chaz’s stomach flip flopped.

“That’s right.  And then I am going to fuck you into next year.”  A pause.  “What?  Why do you care if I’m in the bathroom or not?”  Another pause, then an irritated sigh.  “Please tell me you are joking.”  Another sigh.  “Okay, okay.”

Chaz had to choke back a whimper as three short knocks echoed off the wall between the stalls.  His eyes went wide with fear.  King M3 must have realized Chaz had been eavesdropping.  Of course, it would be hard for him not to since he was chained to the toilet.  But that was no excuse, not to a man like M3!  Oh, God, what was he going to do—

“Chastity, darling, are you there?”

Chaz made a small sound, staring at the stall wall like it might suddenly dissolve and leave him face to face, with the most frightening master in the world.  Or in this case, bare ass next to bare ass.

“Well, of course you’re there,” M3 said in a voice almost that almost made it sound like he was scolding himself.  “Staas would like to know if you enjoyed the enchiladas.”  He gave an evil chuckle.  “Personally, *I* would like to know if you’d appreciate me ripping his testicles from his body.”

What the hell?  Chaz sat up straight, heart pounding.  He clenched his big hands on his bare knees, feeling like he was going to be sick.  He didn’t want Staas to get hurt because of him.  Staas was the closest thing he had to a friend.

The mere idea of speaking to King M3 terrified him, but he had to say something, or Staas would get hurt and it would be all his fault.

“N-no, sir, please,” he managed to choke out.  Except that didn’t sound right.  How did you refer to a man like King M3?  Sir didn’t seem to cover it.  Maybe ‘Your Highness’?  Chaz was pretty sure that’s what they called the Empress of England.  “I-I’m okay, Your Highness.  Please don’t hurt him.  It was just a joke.  Please don’t hurt him bad like that.  He… He’s my only friend.”

Chaz held his breath for what seemed like forever, the silence stretching on, then finally M3 spoke.

“Okay, Chastity.”  The words sounded funny, and Chaz bit his lip.  He didn’t want M3 to, like, knock down the stall door and beat him with it or anything, but he didn’t want Staas to get hurt, either.

“Y-you won’t hurt him?”  It took everything Chaz had in him to choke out the words.

“I won’t hurt him,” M3 confirmed and Chaz sighed in relief, wiping at the sweat that had built up on his forehead.  Man, he’d thought this shit had been hard, but talking to King M3 was a whole ‘nother ballgame.  Or bathroom.  Whatever.

“Th-thank you, Your Highness,” Chaz whispered, then grimaced as another stabbing pain cut through his gut.  One battle over, another still to go.

“I am hanging up on you now, Staas.  Goodnight.  Troy, are you still there?  Mm-hm.  Yes, of course.  Really?  A wheelchair?  Well, that’s interesting…  Did you recognize him?   Hm… Perhaps it’s a kink?  Well, let me know if you find out anything else.  Alright.  Have a good night, Troy.”

Chaz listened tensely as the toilet beside him flushed and the stall door opened.  Water began to run in the sink, and he was just about to relax when his stall door opened and a slim, dark haired man stared down at him with crossed arms and a solemn expression.

King M3 looked even more intimidating in person than he did on the magazine covers.  It wasn’t his size or anything—at six foot four Chaz was bigger than just about everyone—there was just something about the way M3 held himself, like he was lord of the universe…  His black hair was perfectly slicked back, his cream colored suit was perfectly creased, his shoes were perfectly shined.  Everything was so… perfect.  It wasn’t natural.

If Chaz hadn’t been right in the middle of a bowel movement, he probably would have tried to hide behind the toilet.

“Hello, Chastity,” M3’s voice was cool and even.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Having a bad night?”

Chaz’s face went red.  “Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered and M3 gave a little huff of laughter.

“Call me Michael.  I apologize on behalf of my son for this little stunt, because I think we both know that he wouldn’t apologize himself to save his life.”

Was that a threat?  Chaz couldn’t tell.  Afraid to look the man in the face, he locked his gaze on M3’s shoes instead, his pulse racing.

There was an awkward sort of pause, then M3 said, “I do hope your night gets better, though I suppose that’s a bit naive considering you live in a public toilet.”

Chaz didn’t look up, he didn’t even move, like somehow King M3 wouldn’t be able to see him if he just didn’t move.  He didn’t know why the man was here at all, this late at night, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.  Maybe if he just pretended hard enough that M3 wasn’t there, he would go away.

Amazingly, his strategy seemed to work, because a moment later M3 sighed and stepped back.  “Alright, then.  Good night, Chastity,” he said as the stall door swung shut behind him.

Chaz just about melted in relief.  He had survived being seen by King M3.

Now all he had to do was conquer this crap.


	2. A Day in the Men's Room

Ward’s eyebrows shot up as he stepped out of the elevator and into officetopia, glancing around with some level of disbelief.  He’d assumed that the executive floor had been blinged up, but apparently white marble tiling, huge mahogany reception desks, and frosted glass with swirling designs were Zenith’s closet essentials.  The little black dress of the corporate slave trade.

In case you didn’t know which floor you’d stumbled on to, there was a large sign on the wall with the words ‘Your Slave! By Zenith’ printed in thick, unappealing block letters.  Since a team would have to be drunk to think a campaign like this was anything but total crap, Ward figured it might be there for a reason.  It was hard to press the right button when the whole world was spinning.

Other than the rather unappealing sign, the place was pretty upscale, certainly much nicer than any other office Ward had worked in.  The crisp professionalism of it all was somewhat stymied a bit by the twenty or so potted plants covering much of the reception desk and spilling onto the floor on either side, but everybody liked pansies, right?

Half hidden by the monstrosity of a reception desk was a woman who looked like Ward’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Rubin-- wrinkled skin, ugly grey perm, and sour expression all included.  Hopefully she didn’t also come with a kink for hitting knuckles with a ruler.

Ward walked up and leaned on the desk, flashing grandma his best smile.  “Hey, there.”

Apparently this grandma wasn’t easily wooed, because she didn’t even bother to look up from her crossword.  “Just a moment, please.”

Oh, come on.  You had to be kidding him.  “I’m Ward Jacobs, new marketing director.”

She looked up sharply and, for an instant, Ward actually thought she gave a damn that the new boss was in town, an assumption that was quickly shattered as she pushed her little wire rimmed reading glasses up her nose and gave him a not-so-sweet smile.

“An eight letter word for ‘the ability to wait like a gentleman.’  Oh, wait, I know!  Patience!”  She dropped her eyes back to her crossword and Ward huffed in disbelief.

“Why do I get the feeling that’s not on your crossword?” he said dryly, wondering silently if firing somebody in your first ten minutes would be considered bad form.

“Well, aren’t you just the smartest little thing?” the woman cooed in a voice like she was talking to a dog.  She sighed and pushed her crossword away, reaching down into a desk drawer.  “Welcome to Zenith Trade Corporation, Your Slave! by Zenith marketing division.”  She held out a pamphlet, a serious look on her face.  “The plagues are coming.  Abolish slavery before God abolishes you.”

What the hell?

Ward took the pamphlet carefully—he’d never heard of liberation terrorists using ricin, but better safe than sorry—then had to hold back a laugh as he scanned it.

‘Let God’s people go!  Support emancipation today or face the wrath of the Great I Am!’

Seriously?

The woman stood, and Ward got a good look at the button pinned to her yellow grandma blouse for the first time.  “What Would Moses Do?”  He snorted.  “That *has* to be a joke.”

“Plagues are not a laughing matter, young man,” the woman replied sharply.  “Just you wait until the locusts fly in.  *Then* you’ll be sorry you didn’t free the slaves when you had the chance.”  She pursed her lips, putting a wrinkled hand on her hip as she glared at him.  The little old lady did sassy well.  “So, you’re Mr. Jacobs?”

“Yeah, that would be me,” Ward replied.  “And you are…”

“Penny Ledford,” she replied, “receptionist and clerical assistant.  Would you like a ‘What Would Moses Do?’ button?”

“I think I’ll pass,” Ward said slowly, hoping his refusal didn't lead to fire and brimstone shooting his way.

Thankfully all he got was a short scowl as she moved around her desk, gesturing for him to follow her.  “Well, if you would come with me, I would be happy to give you a tour of the office.”

God, she was wearing freaking penny loafers.  Penny in penny loafers.  Ward held back a chuckle as he obediently followed the woman into the guts of the office.

It wasn’t quite as fancy behind the frosted glass as it was up front, sporting your plain old padded cubicle look with cheap carpeting and florescent ceiling lights as accents.  The outer walls were floor to ceiling glass, though, which gave an amazing view of the city, if you liked smog, and the offices along the far wall seemed nice enough.

“Conference room over there, coffee station in the corner,” Penny said, pointing different directions without bothering to pause.  “Copy room is against the back wall.  It doubles as the break room, but please do not use the machines to make photocopies of bodily parts or pornographic magazines.  Over to the right is the mail room.  Your mail, of course, will be delivered to your office by your personal assistant, once one is found.”

“What do you mean ‘once one is found’?” Ward questioned.  “Hammersmith took his secretary with him?”  Surprising.  Ward had been under the impression that his shit for brains predecessor had left with no job offers, and the unemployment office preferred that you come in person to pick up your new source of personal assistance, no secretarial skills necessary as long as you had valid ID and proof of residence.

Penny made a disgusted face.  “No, she didn’t leave with him.  There were… extenuating circumstances.”

“What happened?” Ward questioned, and the woman sniffed.

“Let’s just say that the photocopy rules are in place for a reason.  After the CFO walked in on that little bit of debauchery, it was suggested that Miss Townsend and Mr. Sweeney would be better off working on separate floors.  Or possibly on separate continents.  Mr. Sweeney wasn’t going to leave, so the little Jezebel went instead.  I’m sure she’ll be very happy filing outdated papers in the archive room.”

Damn.  Wasn't this office just a party?  “Who’s Sweeney?" Ward questioned, already disliking the guy.  "And why’d the chick get the kick instead of him?”  Was sexism was as rampant as stupidity on the floor?  Oh, who was he kidding?  Sexism was rampant in all coporations.  Stupidity was up there, too.

“Hm?  Oh, he’s the lead graphic artist,” Penny said, nose wrinkling up a little as she pointed in the direction of a tall, slim, dark haired man working in the cubicle next to the coffee cart.  “They tell me he has some kind of reputation that makes him ‘indispensable’ to the project, or some such nonsense.  I don’t keep up with those things.”

The moment he’d stepped in, Ward had been well aware of all the eyes on him as his new employees snuck quick glances, doing their best to look like they were typing, filing, stapling, and folding when what they were really doing was sizing Ward up.  Most of them looked rather worried, which they deserved to be considering the kind of crap they were producing, but this Sweeney guy was the exception to the rule.

Apparently he couldn't be bothered with pretense, because was staring straight at Ward, dark eyes boring into him, with an certain level of arrogant amusement on his face, like he was daring Ward to mess with him.  The guy better watch out, because Ward wasn't afraid of a challenge.

He did have to admit that the man was handsome enough,deeply  tanned with slicked back hair, and he was dressed in a tailored suit with a bright blue tie that perfectly matched his pocket square.  He was slim shouldered but had a certain strength about him that Ward couldn’t quite pin down.  He wasn’t sure if it was the sharp cut of the man’s jawbone, his prominent cheekbones, or just an aura about him in general.  But something about the guy made him pause…

A sense of deja vu came over Ward, and his forehead wrinkled up as he scoured his brain trying to place the guy, because he was pretty damn sure he’d seen him before.  There was something very familiar about those perfectly groomed eyebrows and that slightly roman nose…

Penny had mentioned a reputation.  Ward worked with a lot of graphic artists, maybe he’d worked with this Sweeney guy before, a long time ago?  The name did seem familiar, real familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it…

“I put together a list of candidates for personal assistant,” Penny said, tugging Ward out of his thoughts.  “This is your new office.”

Ward’s eyebrows shot up as he took in the gold plaque on the door.  ‘Howard Jacobs, Marketing Director.’  There was no way Don could have had that made since they last talked, the son of a bitch.  A harsh reminder that Ward needed to go out of his way too make sure Don knew that Ward wasn’t some slave on a leash that he could tug around as he pleased.  Ward was one of the best mid tier marketers in the country.  No, in the *world.*  Don did not own him, and Ward was not going to let his old friend hold him by the balls.

Ward already had enough bastards out there doing that.

“Corner office.  Nice,” Ward said, saving up his scathing remarks about making assumptions for good old Donald Fielder himself.

The smile Penny gave him was stiff, but at least it was an actual smile, not a scowl or a sneer.  Apparently he was slowly winning over schoolteacher.  Woohoo.

“It is a very nice—Oh my!”

Penny stumbled backward as the door to the office opened suddenly, and Ward had to grab her around the waist to keep her from tumbling to the floor.  ‘Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ was about to have a whole new meaning, worker’s comp style.

“Oops, sorry, Mrs. Penny,” came a voice that didn’t sound sorry at all.  Out of the doorway staggered one of the most beautiful young men Ward had ever seen, arms wrapped around what looked like some sort of giant ass coffee maker thing.

This one was hot as hell for real, no personal affection necessary, with a face like a freaking cover boy.  As a marketing guy, Ward could appreciate the precise oval of his face and the exact symmetry of his perfect features.  And as a queer, he could appreciate those cocksucking pink lips and the thick lashes that begged to be splattered in cum.  The guy belonged a billboard, and you wouldn’t even have to Photoshop to get the shocking husky blue eyes or to make his long, curly hair that 'white as snow with the slightest touch of piss' color everybody was always trying to get.

Who was this dude?  A model?  He had the looks, but what would a model be doing in the office?  Some kind of intern, maybe?  He was definitely too young to be one of Don’s precious “best of the best,” but Ward supposed he could be taking a college marketing class or something.  Whatever it was, Ward wouldn’t mind a chance to stare at this piece of work every day.  Fantasies make the world go ‘round, after all.

“Staas, what in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?” Penny snapped, sounding angry, which was only fair considering that if she’d fallen both hips might very well have snapped on impact.

“Oh, Mrs. Penny, haven’t you heard?” Cocksucker Lips said, batting his eyelashes innocently.  “There have been some serious allegations as to the safety of this cappuccino maker.  My dad and I think it might have gonorrhea.  Old Hammer Time was a kinky SOB.  I’ll bring it back after we get the test results, for sure.”

Wow, the freakishly gorgeous guy was a total prick.  Surprise, surprise.

“Staas, you put that thing back right now!  And don’t you talk about poor Mr. Hammersmith that way.”  Penny's eyes narrowed.  “And aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

So intern it was, then.

Cocksucker Lips—or Staas, Ward guessed, but Cocksucker Lips worked for him—smirked.  “I’m skipping.  I wanted to meet the new boss and it’s not even real school, just stupid summer tutoring.  I don’t know why they make us wear our fucking ties.”

LIps' voice had taken on a whining tempo that Ward knew well from too many birthdays and Christmases spent with the hormonal psychopaths his sister called her offspring, and he eyed the boy in surprise.  Cocksucker Lips wasn’t a man at all; he was a freaking teenager.  Why the hell was there an abnormally hot teenager running around in his office?

“You think just becase your father works here you can do whatever you please?  Staas if you don’t put that back, I’m going to—“

Whatever threat Penny had in her arsenal was lost to the wind as Staas used the coffee machine to shove her out of the way, making his way to, surprisingly, that Sweeney guy’s desk.

"That's Sweeney's son?" Ward questioned, and Penny scowled.

"You could call him that.  I prefer to call him a little devil."

"Wow, they not exactly a matching pair," Ward said, wondering idly if mommy had been playing fast and loose with her house slave without daddy’s knowledge.  It made sense considering that the only people Ward had ever seen with that kid’s coloring were slaves from western Russia.  Of course, considering that daddy had been spending his lunch breaks making dirty photocopies with the secretary, maybe he didn’t give a shit.

Penny huffed.  "Wait until you talk to them.  You'll start to see the resemblance very quickly."

Somehow Ward didn't think that was meant as a compliment.  It was amazing how fast you could come to dislike someone you'd never even met.

“I am very sorry about that, Mr. Jacobs,” Penny said stiffly.  “I pray for that boy every night, but some days I wish I could bend him over my knee and give him the whooping he deserves!”

Ward laughed.  “No worries, Penny.  I’ll take care of the cappuccino maker.  Trust me, it will be my pleasure.”  His pleasure to ‘accidentally’ feel up Cocksucker Lips and see what his smirking father thought of that.  “Oh, and please, call me Ward.”

o o o

After three months of toilet captivity, Chaz’s usually short hair was long enough to fall into his eyes.  Unlike the gorgeous Staas, there was no way he could pull off the whole messy bed head look, and Chaz was pretty sure he was starting to look like a caveman.

Most stables lasered the hair off of their slaves, and Chaz’s hadn’t been the exception.  It was less upkeep overall, since razors didn’t have to be provided and the slaves didn’t need extra time in the wash stalls every morning.  He was starting to get the first hints of stubble on his chin, however, and his legs and crotch were getting hairy, too.  Chaz had been shaved clean his whole life, and he really didn’t like being hairy.  In fact, if it was always as itchy as it was now, he didn’t know how free men stood it.

At least Chaz didn’t actually  smell like a caveman.  There were *some* upsides to being chained to a toilet bowl.  Washing his clothes in the toilet wasn’t exactly hygienic, but at least he had some way of bathing.  The janitor gave him the old packets of soap out of the dispensers, which was helpful.  There was always at least a little left in the bottom, sometimes enough so he could wash his face, hair, *and* clothes in one night.  It was quite a chore considering that the chain around his ankle prevented him from fully removing his pants, but he managed.

In a literal sense Chaz had spent his whole life living in a stall, but the labor slave stables were nothing like this.  Stalls were shared with other slaves, with blankets and padding on the floor to sleep on, and the toilet was separated from the rest of the stall by a small divider.  Even if they had been more like this, working sixteen to eighteen hours a day at the factory meant he’d usually spent no more than four hours in there anyway.

Living in a bathroom stall was a whole new low, it really was.  Why was this happening to him?  Chaz honestly didn’t know.  He’d done his best to be a very good slave, working his whole shift with a smile on his face and a positive attitude.  When Bossman had shown a special interest in Chaz, he’d done his very best to please the man, even if he hadn’t been schooled in how to be good sex for a master.  So why, of all the hundreds of slaves that worked at his factory, had they decided to take only him?  What had *he* done?

Chaz’s woeful thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the bathroom door, and he stiffened.  Muted laughter followed, and it didn’t take long for Chaz to figure out who it was.  A lot of guys came in to use Chaz, but there was only one pair who used this bathroom to do sex with each other.

King M3 and Staas were about to take some personal time.

Having to listen to these two do sex things really tended to freak Chaz out.  When he first started living in the bathroom, he’d overheard some of the guys saying that when Staas got too old to call M3 ‘daddy,’ the King was going to sex him to death.  Chaz *really* didn't want to see anybody sexed to death.

Chaz had noticed that Staas called his master ‘dad,’ but he hadn't thought much of it.  He knew that free men used the word to refer to their sires, but until he'd heard the guys talking, he'd thought Staas was just being rude.  He'd had no idea there was some kind of sex thing attached, and he definitely had no idea what the age limit on calling someone 'daddy' was.  Baby slaves weren't kept with their parents, so Chaz had never met his sire at all, and even if he had, he wouldn't have called him 'dad.'  From the way those men had talked, though, Staas was treading the age line when it came to referring to his master as 'daddy.'

Chaz didn’t know what he’d do if Staas died in the stall next to him.  He’d seen slaves flayed to death before, but never one he considered a friend.  Maybe he’d cry?  The only time Chaz remembered ever crying was when he’d been whipped for breaking an expensive piece of decorative glass, and that was only because it hurt so bad he couldn’t think.  But he might cry.  Staas was the only person who even talked to him anymore.  He didn't want to see Staas sexed to death.

Then, as if the closest thing he had to a friend's possible death wasn't enough to worry about, there was the fact that every time they did this, Chaz would get funny feelings in places he wasn’t supposed to think about, the kind of places you got gelded for touching too much.

Chaz did *not* want to be gelded.  He seriously did not.  But for some reascon, listening to these two always made his body act stupid, which tended to send him into a bit of a panic.  He might not have much use for them, but he liked his balls intact, and it was this kind of behavior that could lead to their painful demise.  It was really upsetting, and every time they came in together, Chaz silently prayed that they'd suddenly decide to go play in another bathroom.  It had never happened, though, and Chaz had a feeling today wasn't going to be any different.

The door to the handicapped stall slammed opened with a bang, and Staas let out a little shout as M3 shoved him in, his red Nikes stumbling backward.  M3 followed, closing the door behind them, and a few seconds later Staas’ jeans were in a bundle around his ankles.  A pair of boxers with some sort of cartoon thing on them followed, and then Chaz heard M3’s deep, cultured voice.

“You are *quite* the little thief,” he said, his usually unnoticable southern twang deepening, stretching the words out in a slow, decadent way that made Chaz shiver.  “You nasty little thief.”  There was a husky edge to the word, and from the way he said it, Chaz wasn’t so sure that M3 really thought this was a bad thing.

“You wanted me to,” Staas said in a high, trembling voice.  “You know you did, Daddy.”

Chaz shivered again.  There it was.  That word.

“Shameless bitch.”  The divider separating their stalls vibrated as Staas’ body was slammed against it, and Chaz inched as far away as he could, pressing his back into the opposite stall.  Staas whimpered, and Chaz bit his lip, trying to look away but unable.  Even though all he could see was their feet, he couldn’t take his eyes off of them.  Pleasure slaves were a different breed entirely, and Chaz found them a little amazing.  They were so worldly, so exotic, so capable.  Pleasure slaves lived on the edge between slaves and free men, experiencing things at their masters’ sides that Chaz could only imagine.

Staas let out a yelp of pain, and M3 grunted loudly.

Not that all the worldly, exotic things they experienced were actually good.

Staas was making little whimpering noises now, and Chaz couldn’t tell if they were from pleasure or pain.  Considering that the man on top of him was King M3, Chaz suspected the latter.  Chaz's few experiences over the past months had been absolutely excruciating, and M3 was the meanest master out there.  Compared to him, the fat, doughy guy with the bald spot and glasses was nothing.

There was a loud slap, the kind that could only come from skin on skin contact, and Staas let out a desperate sounding whine.  Yeah, the whimpers were definitely from pain.  Chaz licked his lips nervously, silently praying that M3 didn’t decide that today was the day Staas was too old to say ‘daddy.’

“First day with Jacobs and you’re already making a mess,” M3 said in a low, dangerous voice.  “Thieving from the boss.  You are one very bad little boy, blyat.”

“Go to hell, motherfucker,” Staas hissed, making Chaz want to hide his face.  Being a worldly pleasure slave was one thing, but sometimes Staas crossed the line right into stupid.  Why the hell would you talk to a master like that?  Especially a master like King M3!

The stall began to vibrate in time with a pounding rhythm, and Staas’ grunts joined the chorus a moment later.  Bam, bam, bam… The sound itself made Chaz wince.  How hard was M3 shoving into Staas, to make a noise like that?

“I fucking hate you, daddy,” came Staas’ whining voice, and Chaz bit his lip as he watched the red Nikes begin to shuffle around, like he was struggling.  “I fucking *hate* you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” M3 replied, voice flush with heat, and a moment later his shiny dress shoes knocked Staas’ feet out from under him.  The King must have grabbed Staas and pinned him against the stall as he did so, because instead of falling to the ground, those red Nikes lifted up until only the very tippy toes were touching the tile.

There was an animalistic grunt, then Staas let out a short howl, nails scratching on the divider like he was trying to escape through it.

Chaz’s heart was beating too fast, the fear of what might happen mixed with the distrubing pulse in his lower body making him feel a little light headed.  He really did hate it when they did this.  It was scary and confusing and always made him feel really weird.

“Screw you, daddy, I do what I want to do—oh, oh, OH!”  Staas’ whining words degraded into a series of short cries as the stall began to shake to a beat once more.  “Uh, uuuuh, ugh, oh, uh, AH, uh!” Staas grunted, slapping his hand against the stall wall in time to his cries.

“Little whore.  I give you everything, but you never do what I say like a good boy.”  M3’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl.  “It’s time to see what happens when you mess with daddy.  You… are… a very bad… BOY!”  There was one last slam, hard enough that Chaz wondered for an instant if maybe the stall wall was going to fall down, then Staas collapsed to the floor, landing on his knees, his red tennis shoes hidden beneath his bare ass.  Chaz couldn’t see his face, but he could see his hands, and they were shaking.

“Suck it,” M3 said in a very authoritarian voice, and Chaz flinched, even though he knew the words weren’t directed at him.  Thank God they weren’t directed at him.

“Don’t wanna,” Staas replied with a whine, much to Chaz’s disbelief.  Did Staas *want* to die a horrible death?  Chaz wouldn’t refuse any free man, much less a master like the King.  He’d seen slaves beaten to death for less.

Apparently M3 agreed, because there was a loud slap and Staas shouted something that Chaz was pretty sure was a curse in another language.

“Go to hell, you—mhmMMguguggakuggak!”

King M3 must have decided chat time was over, because Chaz would recognize those choking, gagging noises anywhere.  He’d heard them a lot lately, mostly coming from his own throat right before some guy came in it.  Staas was definitely more practiced than Chaz was, though, because the gagging quickly transformed into muffled sounds, like Staas was trying to talk with his master’s thing stuffed in his mouth.

M3 chuckled in a way that gave Chaz the feeling he was watching Staas’ attempts with great amusement.

“Aw, there’s a good little boy.  Almost as nice and polite as the day I first brought you home.  Remember back then, little Staas, when you were such a nice boy?”  Staas began to gag again, and Chaz winced in sympathy then shifted around a little, trying to ignore the increased throbbing in his lower parts.

King M3 inhaled sharply, then let out a loud groan.  “There we go… swallow that down and we’ll be all done.  I bet you’re glad to be all done, aren’t you, Staas?  You don’t like it when you’ve got too much cock in your mouth to spout off those big, loud opinions of yours.  There's a good boy.”

Staas started to climb to his feet, only to be shoved all the way down, hitting the tile with a cry.  Chaz could see Staas face clearly now, eyes squeezed shut and teeth bared furiously, a sticky mixture of spit and cum dripping down his chin.  His blue eyes popped open and, as they latched with Chaz’s, the angry look on his face disappeared in an instant, replaced with a sheepish looking grin.  “Hey, Chast—“

His words were cut off as he was yanked back up by the collar.

“I told you to swallow it, sweetie,” M3 said, his voice suddenly strangely playful, with a smirking edge to it.  “And I meant swallow it.  Not hold it in your mouth and then spit it in the toilet.  In fact, I think you should go get it.”

Staas let out a short cry which was followed by a splash.  A few seconds later there was a loud gasp, like someone sucking in a lungful of air, and then the shouting began.

“Dammit, Dad, my hair!”

King M3 began to laugh, a deep sound from the belly, and Staas climbed to his feet, water dripping down his legs.  He reached down, yanking up his boxers and pants in one go, muttering cruse words.

“Oh my God, Staas, the look on your face…”  Sometimes Chaz wondered if putting your thing places got you high, because M3 sure acted real funny after they finished up.

“Oh, go to hell,” came Staas’ sour reply as the stall door swung open.  “I hate you.”

“I own you,” M3 countered, and began to laugh all over again.  “I should have gotten a picture.”

“Fuck you, Dad.”

“No, I think I’d rather fuck you.”

“Haha.  Really freaking hilarious.  I’ve never heard that one before.  Hey, I wonder…”  The hand dryer came on.  Whoa, too hot!  Shit, that burns!  Oh my God, my head!  Dammit!  I need a hair dryer.”

M3 let out another laugh, and Chaz shifted again, wincing at the aching feeling between his legs.  He was pretty sure he could make it go away if he touched it, but he was equally sure that he didn’t want to give anybody a reason to chop off his balls.  His life seriously sucked sometimes.

Just another day in the men's room, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

o o o

“Here you go, Ward,” Penny said, pushing a file across her desk.  Ward winced as one of her potted plants teetered menacingly.  “I hope you had a blessed lunch, God save your eternally damned soul.  The page on top is a list of candidates for your personal assistant, and below are the papers you requested from Human Resources.”

“Thanks, Penny,” Ward said as he took them.  Was it sad that he was already getting used to having a religious nutcase as a receptionist?  “Can you get the word out to the various team leaders that I want to get together with them before the official meet and greet this afternoon?  Say, in the conference room, one hour?”

“Sure thing,” Penny replied as she adjusted her reading glasses on her nose.  “I mean, it’s not as though I have papers to fax or calls to make or deliveries to schedule.  I would *relish* the chance to pretend I’m your personal secretary.”

“Aw, thanks, Penny,” Ward said sarcastically, putting a hand over his heart.  “You blow my mind.”  There were other places he’d ‘relish the chance’ to tell her to blow, but now was not the time.  “Hey, where are the restrooms?”

“Men’s room is straight down that hall,” she said, pointing, “But beware of the Lord’s wrath.  That bathroom is Egypt, and God will lead his people out of bondage and into the Promised Land.”

Okay…  Maybe it was time to back away slowly.  Seriously, this woman was weird, and even with her grandmotherly looks it made him a little uneasy.  Of course, everyone involved with the slave trade was on the edge right now.  Let Freedom Ring had blasted another auction house this week, their third in a year.  Not everybody was all lollipops and pixie sticks about this whole Edderday v. Kentucky deal.

Between the Let Freedom Ring’s “freedom fighters” and the Southern Owned Sect’s “southern soldiers,” extremists on both sides of the line were kicking up fuss like never before and kidnappings and explosions were slowly becoming everyday news.  Day by day, the country was slowly but steadily taking sides.  Strangely enough, both extremist groups were against the new slave laws, albeit for different reasons.

The Great Old South was not happy about Edderday, to say the least, but their reasons were a matter of pride.  They considered themselves a sort of empire within a republic, and slavery was a part of their old money traditions.  The idea that the common man—and Northerners in particular—were now free to own the South’s most profitable crop had brought some serious unrest within Antebellum.

On the other hand, the Northern based abolitionists were up in arms for opposite reasons, claiming that introducing yet more slaves to the economy would degrade capitalistic society and the American Dream they held so dear.  They claimed that the heart of America was the ideal that everyman could become the Big Man, and while Edderday did promote a equality in a literal sense, more slaves in the private sector and small businesses would mean a decrease in work for free men, something that could seriously cost the economy, and the American Dream.

Then, of course, there were the *total* extremists, beyond even the Ring and the SOS.  Nutcases like Penny, who believed that God’s wrath would be brought down upon those who owned slaves, as well at the moral abolitionists, who claimed that all men were created equal, and that slavery should be abolished for some sort of whacky ethical reason.

Put together, all this unrest made for a disturbing picture.  And here was Ward, right at the center of it all.  Thank you so much, Prance, for this wonderful opportunity to play the inside man.  You know, the guys who always got caught.  Little bitch.

God, Ward really needed to stop blaming Prance.  He was knee deep in shit and sinking, but it hadn’t flowed from Prance’s ass.  No, he’d made his own mess when he’d stepped on the Masked Master’s toes, and now he was paying for it.

Masked Master.  Ha.  It sounded like a fucking comic book villain.  Ward sincerely hoped the bastard hadn’t picked the name for himself, because that would just be sad.

Ward had no choice now but to see this through, but it really would be a lot less nerve wracking if he had any clue whatsoever why the Master wanted him at Zenith so bad.  Having absolutely no vision of the bigger picture kind of made him wanna claw his fucking eyes out, then maybe smoke a cigarette or forty.

Hell, Ward wasn’t even entirely sure which side the goddamn the Master was on.  If you believed word on the street, you'd think that this guy was some sort of deity, showing up mysteriously at auctions and foreclosures then disappearing into thin air with a collection of slaves never seen again.  'Sacrifices,' people even called them, like the guy took his buys home and chopped them up on an alter.

All Ward *really* knew was that the bastard had his fingers in the pot in some way when it came to this Edderday crap, and having Ward as his little toy soldier was important enough to dangle Prance in front of him like a freaking carrot on a stick.  And not just Prance, but the *old* Prance.  The Prance from Before.  The Prance who could wrap his legs around Ward’s body or swing around a pole in his panties or kick his master in the nuts, whatever he wanted.  The Prance Ward could look in the goddamn eye.

All Ward had to do was play nice, be a good little Masked Master bitch, and he could have his boy back, with a little salvation on the side.  Of course, before there could be any leg wrapping or pole swinging or nut kicking, Ward had to actually make moves to salvage this shipwreck of a campaign.

Ward walked slowly down the hallway toward the men’s room, flipping through the files he’d requested from HR.  There were four senior players involved in this heaping mess, and Ward wanted to know as much about them as he could before he walked into the conference room.

First up was George Ruckiss, head of research and analytics.  His ID picture made him look like a less attractive version of the Pillsbury dough boy, with the palest, rounded face Ward had ever seen.  As an Ivy Leaguer, Ward wasn’t particularly impressed by his West Coast education, but the man had worked on Wall Street for several years, so hopefully he was good with numbers.

Karen Bronner, sales strategy manager, was next, and Ward could tell right off she was your classic get-er-done, pyramid scaling she-dog.  In her picture there was a fierce look in her eyes that clearly said, “I’m gonna rip your balls off now," a sentiment somewhat at odds with her pink angora sweater.  But hey, 'Art of War' types were great in sales.  They went at it like it was a battle to be won.

Social media manager and SEO Jonas Krunk was obviously a recovering dweed, trying to prove something to the high school jocks haunting his nightmares with overpriced designer t-shirts and Dr. Dre brand headphones.  That worked for Ward.  Dweebs were the best social media managers out there.  They might be forty year old virgins living with their mothers in reality, but in the world of ones and zeroes, they were the goddamn quarterbacks.  Thank goodness for Second Life.

Last, but not least, was that Sweeney bastard.  Head of graphic design, Michael Nathaniel Sweeney III… Oh, hell no.

Ward had a sudden urge to slap himself in the goddamn face.  How the hell had he not recognized the bastard?  Just yesterday that face had smirked up at him from the front page of 'The Enquirer,' as he fondled his sister’s ass in a poorly photoshopped image.  The heading had been: ‘Queen Sween says incest is best, and King M3 nails the belle.’

Shit, no wonder the pussy princess had been shuffled off to filing hell while the dick kept his desk.  Being able to toss Michael Sweeney the Third’s name around in relation to the Your Slave! campaign would be like media gold.  Michael 3’s own line of slaves, Plantation Pleasures, were some of the most sought after sex slaves on the market, and that wasn’t even taking into account that he was heir to the Southern Plantation, the oldest and most respected slave farm in the United States.

Michael was modern day royalty, in a literal sense.  His family was one of the eleven lineages granted a family seat on the Senate by Abraham Lincoln in an effort to reunite the North and the South after the Civil War.  ‘Sir Senator of Texas’ was the actual title that would one day be handed down to Michael, but the media preferred to call him King M3.

The Southern Senators didn’t have much actual power, as instead of one vote per seat, the eleven Sir Senators would vote amongst themselves, and the majority ruling would be sumbitted as "The Southen Ballot," a single extra Senate vote to represent the Great Old South.  But powerful or not, the members of Old Eleven were still the ultimate celebrities, adored by all of Antebellum.  Michael, with his dashing good looks and reputation for doing whatever he pleased, was this generation’s bad boy, and his younger sister Anabelle, better known as “Queen Sween,” had her own goddamn reality show.  Hell, he'd seen a commercial for it last night.  'Antebellum Babe,' Sundays at seven on NBC.

Ward really should have recognized the man right off the bat, but celebrity scoops and star sightings weren’t really his thing.  In his mind being famous for being famous was just ridiculous.  He found all that popstar crap distasteful in general, and King M3 in particular.  The guy went out of his way to act like a spoiled fool who thought he could do anything he wanted, anytime he wanted, and get away with it.  Which he probably could, but that wasn’t the point.  He was a freaking media whore, and Ward did *not* want that on his team.

Sure, Ward could see the advantages of being able to slap the King M3 label on something, and he could only imagine how much they were paying the guy to do this, but he was not interested in bowing to the wishes of some megalomaniac.

The thought made Ward pause, and he frowned deeply.  Now that he thought about it, Ward *couldn’t* imagine how much they were paying Michael the Third to be here, because the last thing the heir to the goddamn Southern Plantation fortune needed was more money.  Why *was* the so-called ‘King’ here, working in a little cubicle and photocopying women’s private parts during lunch hour, instead of drinking scotch on a yacht or golfing with Tiger or banging overpriced escorts or whatever else men like him did for kicks?  Whatever his reasons, Ward was not happy.

Ward pushed the bathroom door open and dropped the file onto the countertop as he made his way over to the urinals, unzipping his fly as he walked.  In all honesty, he’d really prefer to go take a piss on Don’s shoes right now.  Michael Sweeney the Third as head graphic artist?  Seriously?  No wonder the campaign was shit.  Apparently Don’s idea of the “best of the best” was more like the “most famous of the famous.”

BANG!

Ward jumped at the sudden sound, grimacing as he came very close to pissing on the wall.  What the hell was that?  He’d been sure the bathroom was empty when he walked in, all the stall doors open and no one else at the urinals.

He quickly finished up, stuffing himself back into his pants as he glanced around, looking for the source of the sound.  Seriously, if this place was haunted on top of everything else, he was out of here.  Screw Don, screw Prance, screw the goddamn world.  He had limits, dammit.

All the stall doors *were* open, except for one, but it had a big, orange cone stuck in front of it with an ‘Out of Service’ sign taped to the door.

A soft clanking noise came from the general direction of the stall, and Ward bent over, tilting his head a little so he could see under the door.  His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw the heavy, rubber soles of work boots.  Shit, had someone fallen while trying to fix the pot?

“Hey, are you okay in there, man?” he questioned, kicking the cone out of the way.

No answer.  Ward frowned and gave the stall door a little push.  It swung open easily, and Ward stepped in, opening his mouth to speak and then freezing in place, staring in disbelief.  No way.  No goddamn way.

Dog Boy.  It was motherfucking Dog Boy.  Dog Boy was in his bathroom!

Ward had to choke down panic.  What the hell did those blackmailing bastards think they were doing, sending *Dog Boy* here, of all people?  If Ward got caught, it would totally destroy his career, and he might even get arrested for fraud or corporate espionage, depending on what kind of pressure Don put on his many buddies in the government.

This was fucking insane.  Yeah, Don was an old friend, but it wasn’t like he had any particular loyalty to the guy.  Did the Masked Master really think he was so untrustworthy that he had to send his dog to keep an eye on him?  If so, why the hell had they picked him at all?  And how was a slave like Dog Boy supposed to spy on him?  This made *no* freaking sense.

Ward stepped quickly into the stall, slamming the door behind him and leaning against, staring down furiously at Dog Boy.

“What the fuck are you doing here, mutt?” he hissed, hands clenched into fists.  “Are you insane?”

Dog Boy stared up at him with a look of genuine confusion, making Ward pause.  He had never seen Dog Boy look at anyone like that.  There was a level of comprehension in its eyes that Ward had never seen before, and it was kind of unnerving.

What the hell was going on here?  Had the dog act been fake all along?  If so, Dog Boy had made a good job of it.  It deserved a damn Oscar.  Except... when Ward had seen Dog Boy last night, its hair had been buzzed short, and this version’s bangs were long enough to hang in its eyes.  There was no collar to be seen, and this Dog Boy was wearing actual clothes, not some skimpy piece of fabric that barely covered him.  Plus the Dog Boy that Ward knew was hugely muscular, with bulging biceps and thighs, while this one was obviously underfed, almost to the point of malnourishment.

Yet everything else was the same, from the big brown eyes to the light freckling across the nose to the pink lips to the masculine cut of the jaw.

Unbelievable.  This was seriously unbelievable.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” Skinny Dog Boy said in a small, frightened voice, and Ward was a little taken aback by the soft gentleness of it.  He’d never considered Dog Boy to be the gentle type.  He sure didn’t bark gently.  “I don’t… I just… I’m sorry.”

The kid, who Ward was starting to think wasn’t Dog Boy at all, sort of cringed away, cowering down as if he wasn’t six foot four with hands as big as Ward’s face.  His shoulders were tensed like he was awaiting a blow and his eyes practically shone with fear.  The poor boy was freaking terrified.

This was definitely not Dog Boy.  But if he wasn’t Dog Boy, then who was he?  A clone?  It was illegal to clone humans, even slaves, and as far as Ward knew, they weren’t there scientifically anyway.  A twin?  It was the only other option he could come up with short of doppleganger, but it sure seemed awfully soap opera.  Twins, separated at birth—one goes on to be a dog, the other a human toilet.  What will happen when they are reunited?

Okay, that sounded more more twisted than Ward had intended.

“Do you work here?” Ward asked finally, doing his best to process this mess.  How the hell had this happened?  Had Prance’s mysterious master known about this?  If so, Ward was not gonna be happy.

“I-If you want me to work, sir,” the boy replied shakily, his voice still soft and sweet and very much at odds with his big, jock-like build.  The kid shifted around and, for the first time, Ward noticed the chain going from his ankle to the toilet.  He was *chained* to a goddamn *toilet*?

“You’re a slave,” Ward realized suddenly, though it should have been obvious from the start.  Of course the kid was a slave.  He was Dog Boy’s twin, and Dog Boy was a slave.  They’d popped out of the same mama, so they both had to be slaves.  You didn’t get to pick and choose on stuff like that.

The boy blinked up at him with his big brown eyes, so dark they were almost black.  “Um… Yes, sir.  Do you want to put your thing in my mouth?”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up.  Did Ward want to put his *thing* in his mouth?  His *thing*?  Obviously Ward could strike pleasure slave off his list of what sort of slave this kid might be, though that was pretty obvious from the boy’s big, strong build.  Sex slaves tended to be small boned and pretty.  This one looked more like a labor slave, the kind that paved streets and worked assembly lines and built houses, but there was no reason to chain a labor slave up like this.  The last time Ward checked, janitors didn’t do much good chained to a pot.  You couldn’t *do* labor if you were tied up in a bathroom stall.

First the bratty teenager in his office, now the random slave in his bathroom.  What else was Zenith Trade Corporation planning on shooting his way today?  Little People in the mail room?  Sumo wrestlers at the coffee pot?  Strippers under his desk?

That last one didn’t sound half bad.  You know, providing they were men.

“I’m guessing by ‘thing’ you mean my cock,” Ward said dryly, and the kid flinched a little.

“Um, yes, sir?  I mean your, um, your, uh… cock.”  His cheeks reddened until he looked like a tomato.  A brown eyed, slightly freckled tomato.  Or, considering this was a fucking bathroom, ‘used tampon’ might be a more appropriate descriptor.  “I think?”

He thought?  Yeah, definitely some kind of labor slave, and a relatively  young one at that.  How old was Dog Boy?  Eighteen?  Nineteen?  Somewhere in there.  Ward wasn’t surem as he did his best to avoid that freak and its blackmailing son of a bitch owner, too.

“You do that a lot, kid?  Put guys 'things' in your mouth?” Ward questioned, a twisted picture beginning to form in his mind.  As a porno it would have been really hot, but in reality?  Talk about the epitome of unprofessionalism.

“I think maybe that’s what I’m here for?” the boy said, more of a question than an answer.  “I dunno, but this is my home.”

His home?  It was a public restroom, for the love of God.  Ward grimaced, running a hand over his face.  This was *so* inappropriate.  Best of the best, huh, Don?

“So you’re, what, the coffee pot of perverts?  How long have you been in here?”

The boy glanced over at the stall wall, and for the first time Ward noticed a bunch of tiny scratches in the metal.  A *whole* bunch.  Damn.

“Um, I think maybe three months?  Four?  I didn’t start keeping track until I’d been here awhile.”  The shifted, frowning.  “I’m really not sure.”

“Do you ever get to leave?” Ward questioned, less than pleased when the kid shook his head.

“No, sir.  But I think that’s why they put me here.  So I could just stay someplace and they wouldn’t have to take me to the bathroom.”

Wonderful.  Ward was supposed to market slaves to the busy middle class when some idiot in his own damn office was too lazy to take care of his slave.  This did not bode well for his campaign.

“Are you the new boss?” the kid asked, still staring up at him with those big puppy dog eyes.  Ward grimaced as Dog Boy’s absurdly happy face flashed through his mind.  He really needed to avoid any euphemisms or metaphors relating to dogs when it came to this kid.

“Yeah, I’m the new boss,” Ward agreed.  “Ward Jacobs.  Nice to meet you.”

“Huh.  So… do you want to put it in my mouth now, master?” Unlike a trained pleasure slave, this kid was definitely not good at feigning excitement.

“I’m not your master,” Ward said, a little too sharply.  The last thing he ever needed was to be someone’s master.  He’d fucked that up good and well, and now here he was with his career on the line, thanks to that mess.

“Oh.”  The kid looked disappointed.  “I was hoping you were.  I wish someone would tell me who he is.”

Well, didn’t this little trip through the rabbit hole get weirder and weirder by the second?

“So you don’t even know who owns you?” Ward questioned, really confused now.

The boy shook his head.  “No, sir.  They took me from the factory and put me here, but they never told me who my master was.  Lots of different guys come and see me, so I don’t know who owns me.”

“You have a name, kid?” Ward asked, seriously considering just firing everyone in the department and starting from scratch.

“I’m Chastity.”

Oh, you had to be kidding him.  The kid was built like a linebacker and they’d named him *Chastity*?  Of course, with the way he’d blushed when Ward had said ‘cock,’ he supposed the name was fitting.  Seriously, though, what was wrong with people?  And he’d thought ‘Prance’ was bad.

The boy had obviously sensed his displeasure, because he spoke with a worried edge to his voice.  “Is that bad?”

Ward gave a huff of laughter.  “Nah, it ain’t bad, kid.  It’s just… not really a boy name.  But then you slaves get some weird names something.”

“Oh,” the kid said, brow furrowing.  “Sometimes people call me Chaz.”

Ward supposed it was better than ‘Chastity.’  Did the kid even know what ‘chastity’ meant?  Possibly not.  Most slaves didn’t get much in the way of schooling.

“Okay, Chaz.  How about this?  You wait here while I find out whose bright idea it was to have a coin operated cocksucking machine installed in the company bathroom, then I’ll come back and we’ll get that chain off your ankle.  Sound good?”

The kid’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he sat up very straight, grabbing at the ankle chain with one hand.  “Really?” he said in a cautiously hopeful voice, the poor bastard.

“Really,” Ward agreed, then paused, staring down at the kid.  He’d been right, Dog Boy was pretty damn handsome when he wasn’t barking and trying to get you to play fetch.  In a way, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, as Ward was pretty sure that no other company in the universe who would be this damn unprofessional.  Talk about porn becoming reality--it was the kind of thing men dreamed about.  The sex slave in the office men’s room meets the new boss for the very first time.  There was a certain level of poetry to it.  If your poet was a pervert, anyway.

Ward's cock twitched and he reached down to cup his nuts.  A good, honorable man would walk out of this bathroom right now, find the key to that damn lock, and come free this poor kid, right now.  But damn, would it make for a great story, and the idea really *was* hot as hell.

Aw, fuck it.  Ward had dropped good and honorable a long time ago.

He fondled himself roughly as he unzipped his trousers.  “Before I go, how about you have a little taste of my ‘thing’?”


	3. The Answer Worth a Thousand Words

Chaz felt really stupid.  The new boss’ thing was in his mouth, but the man looked like he was on the edge of laughter, lip twitching and amusement in his eyes.  Once again Chaz was doing this wrong and he really didn’t know how to fix it.

Not that the new boss wasn’t hard, because he was, and the salty taste in Chaz’s mouth was a warning that in a few minutes his mouth would be full of hot stickiness, but Chaz still felt as though he was being silently laughed at, which made his cheeks burn hot.  It wasn’t his fault that he’d be trained to weld steel, not to suck… to suck… ugh.

Chaz really didn’t like any of the words these men used for their things.  He’d lived in a labor stable of all male slaves, and the stable masters hadn’t put up with any of what they called “funny business.”  You weren’t even supposed to touch yourself there, really, and if you did dare to touch yourself then you had damn well better be facing the the wall and hunched over so none of the other men could see.  Even if you hid it like that, sometimes you got in trouble.  Chaz just felt it was better to never touch at all.

Chaz guessed that at one time the stable masters must have had a problem with the male slaves raping each other, because there were signs warning against it in the showers, though he’d never seen it happen.   But if you even talked in a way that could possibly be perceived as sexual, then you got whipped, and he never wanted that.  Especially not for something as stupid as playing with himself.

There were always a few incidents where some of the men would do stuff with each other, but not very much because if you got caught, they took you to the medicine man and he gelded you.  One of the old men who rode the bus to the factory with Chaz had no balls, or that was what he’d heard.  Rumor was that when he was young he’d fallen in love with the pleasure slave of a factory boss, and when they’d been caught the boss had used a handsaw to take off the man’s balls right there in front of everybody.  The pleasure slave hadn’t survived.  The boss had shoved him into the enormous wood chipper made to consume whole trees, feet first so he would feel the pain.  Or so people said, anyway.

Being a disobedient labor slave was bad, but a sex slave cheating on his master was unforgivable.

Where Chaz came from, a man’s privates were his “thing” and you didn’t talk about your balls if you wanted to keep them.  These rules definitely didn’t apply in this place, though, because the men who came in here called him all sorts of words that would have earned them a beating if they lived at the slave stable.  Cock sucker, dick licker, johnson eater, and just plain old ‘slut’ were a few favorites.

Chaz was doing his best to suck on the thing in his mouth, but spittle was dripping onto his shirt and every few minutes it would slip out and the boss would have to direct it back in again.  At least this boss guy didn’t slam in hard like some of them did.  Chaz wasn’t sure how Staas could get all choky, gaggy like that and not throw up afterward.  Having a man’s thing that far back was like swallowing a huge chunk of bread—his body just wanted to get it out.  How could you turn that off?  Maybe it was some kind of magic sex slaves had?  He’d heard that pleasure slaves were magical.  Old Joe always said they could casts spells with their wands.

Suddenly Chaz’s mouth was filled with hot and sticky, and the new boss pulled his thing out, grabbing some toilet paper off the holder and wiping himself off.  Some of the stuff had leaked out of Chaz’s mouth and was running down his chin.  Yuck.  He turned and reached into the toilet, splashing his face with water, then leaned over it and let the icky run out of his mouth into the bowl.  He really didn’t like that stuff.

“Well, that was…” The boss cleared his throat and Chaz looked back up, cheeks going red again as he saw the boss sort of smirking at him.  “…interesting.  I’ll see you in a little while, Chaz, and we’ll get that thing off your leg, okay?”

Chaz nodded silently, though he was kind of afraid to get his hopes up in case the new boss changed his mind.  Still, it would be awesome.  If it meant he got to leave this bathroom, then Chaz would take the new boss’ thing in his mouth a million billion times if he had to.

The new boss smiled at him as he finished zipping himself up.  He opened the stall door and then stumbled backward suddenly, almost tripping over Chaz.  King M3 was leaning against the wall across from the stall his hands in his pockets, a casual smile on his face and a scary look in his eyes.

Chaz held back a squeak of terror, the memory of Staas’ pained whimper all too fresh in his mind.  Had M3 finally come for him?  Had he been waiting for the new boss man to finish?  Why now, when Chaz had been so close to maybe getting out of this stall?  Oh, God.  Chaz felt his pulse speed up as he stared at the man’s dark, terrifying eyes.  No, no, please, no.

“Hello, Mr. Jacobs, I presume?” M3 said in a friendly enough voice, his gaze dropping down to Chaz for an instant before flickering back up to the new boss’ face.

The new boss had jumped when he first opened the stall, but now he seemed in control, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the other man.  “That would be me,” the boss said in a gruff voice, like the men at the stable did when they were challenging each other, which was weird.  There was no extra food or new blankets here.  Why would the new boss talk like that?  Chaz frowned.  Maybe he was weirded out because a king was working for him?  That was understandable.  It had to be weird having royalty work for you.

“Michael Sweeney.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jacobs.”  M3 stepped forward and extended his hand. The new boss was brave enough to take it, which meant he was *very* brave.

“People call me Ward.”  The words were clipped, and Chaz noticed that Ward hadn’t returned King M3’s pleasantry.  Did the new boss not like the King?  That could be a problem.  What did you do if you didn’t like a king who was working for you?  Could kings be fired?

“Ward, then,” M3 said, and his eyes flickered to Chaz once more. Chaz ducked his head to try and avoid the gaze, silently praying that King M3 would decide he wasn’t worth the effort.  “Funny seeing you here.”  There was a weird edge to the words, sort of disapproving.  So the king didn’t like the boss, either?  This could definitely turn out bad.  Chaz was pretty sure things went smoother when kings were bosses, too.

“Last time I checked, it was a public restroom,” the new boss snapped back.  “Not reserved for *royalty.*  How is your sister, by the way?  I’ve heard you two are close.”  The words were dripping with sarcasm for some reason, and Chaz had a feeling that he was missing something.

M3 smirked in a superior way.  “I would say Anabelle is doing well.  As my dearest Memaw told me as a boy, a southern man’s jewels should be kept in the family.”

“Haha,” the new boss replied is a flat tone.  “Hilarious.  I want to get one thing straight, Sweeney.  You may be a big shot on the red carpet, but in this is my house now.  You put one toe out of line, and you can fly your ass back to Antebellum.  Being able to stamp your name on our product is not reason enough to put up with any egotistical bullshit, you got me?”

Dang.  The new boss was more than brave.  He was crazy.  Chaz wondered idly if he’d like Staas.  They seemed to have quite a bit in common.

King M3 just stood there for a moment, lips pursing as he glanced down at Chaz once again, then he flashed a big smile at the other man, though it looked kind of fake.

“I am well aware that you are the director of this project, Ward, I have no problem with that.”  He reached out, patting the new boss on the shoulder, and for a second Chaz thought the bossman was going to growl.  “Heck, I see that you’ve integrated yourself into the local culture already.”  M3’s voice was friendly and open, smile still on his face, but this just seemed to piss the new boss off even more, because his hands tightened into fists.

“I don’t need crap from you, Sweeney,” the bossman replied, his voice low.  “What I do is none of your business.”

M3’s smile turned into a smirk, and he gave a little salute.  “Sir, yes, sir.”  His normally brisk voice went Southern, the words drawn out, long and thick.  “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Shut up, Sweeney,” the new boss muttered, then he sort of shoved M3 aside, hard enough that the King stumbled a little, and made for the exit.

Great.  Now he was all alone with the scariest master in the world, and this time the guy didn’t have the shits to distract him.

Doing his best to make himself look small, Chaz hunched his shoulders and pulled his legs tight against his chest, dropping his gaze to the floor and staring resolutely.  Maybe if he was really still, M3 would forget about him.

That hope was quickly lost when Chaz felt long, slim fingers slide down his cheek.  M3 cupped his chin, gently tugging his head upward.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.  Chaz slowly lifted his eyes, trembling a little at M3’s stare.

“Tell me, Chastity,” the man said after a moment, his voice soft.  “When Mr. Jacobs talked to you… did he say anything that seemed funny to you?”

Chaz blinked.  Funny?  No, nothing the new boss had said seemed very funny.  Kind of weird, but not funny.  Chaz wasn’t laughing, anyway.  “N-no, Your Highness,” he whispered, and M3 let out an irritated sigh as he released his chin.

“You may call me Michael, Chastity.”  He paused, frowning.  It made him look older when he frowned, little wrinkles appearing around his eyes.  From the few times he’d seem him from above the ankles, Chaz had assumed the man was in his early thirties, but when he frowned like that he definitely looked older.  “Or Mr. Sweeney, if you prefer.”  He paused again, and the frown deepened, definitely making him look at least forty, maybe older.  “You *do* realize that I’m not actually a king, right?”

Chaz licked his lips nervously.  Well, he knew that America had a President, not a King, so he guessed he knew that.  But wasn’t being a man like M3 pretty much the same thing?  Besides, you could be king of other places than America.  “Y-yes, Mr. Sweeney, sir?” Chaz replied, though he really wasn’t sure at all.  Best to tell the man what he wanted to hear.

“Right,” King M3 said, not looking like he bought Chaz’s answer.  “So when Mr. Jacobs first saw you… How did he react?”

Chaz bit his lip, chewing on it nervously.  “I… He… He seemed sort of surprised, Your Highness.  H-he yelled at me.  But then I said he could put his thing in and he seemed okay.  He was nice after that.”

“Of course he was,” Michael murmured, though Chaz didn’t really know what that meant.  “Do you know why he yelled at you?”

Chaz shook his head.  “No, sir.  I don’t think he liked me.  He asked what I was doing in here and called me, um,” Chaz frowned, trying to remember the name.  “Oh, he called me Mutt, but that’s not my name, so I don’t know why.”

“It’s an epithet, Chastity,” M3 said idly, as if Chaz should know what an epi-whatever was.

Man, he wished King M3 would just go away.

“So he yelled at you for being in here, called you names, and then put his penis in your mouth?”

“He asked me about why I’m in here, too, but I didn’t tell him anything,” Chaz said.

M3 looked at him strangely.  “Why not?”

Chaz blinked, then hunched over a little more.  “‘Um…Cause I dunno why I’m in here?”

“Right,” M3 muttered, looking mildly disgusted.  “So basically, he discovered you in the stall and decided to play with his new toy?”

Chaz nodded, then took a deep breath, summoning up every bit of courage he had.  It was obvious M3 wasn’t interested in walking away, so maybe it would be better if Chaz just went ahead offered to suck his thing.  It might make him happy, and then maybe the King wouldn’t hurt him.  If Staas could do it, he could too, right?  Chaz could be brave.  

“So, Your Highness,” he said, trying to sound casual, “do you want to…to put your… to put your….”  Oh, God, he couldn’t even make himself say it.  Chaz made a scared sound and  dropped his head down, hiding his face in his knees, heart pounding as a million terrible images of what might happen next assaulted his brain.  He’d spent so long doing everything he could to avoid attracting M3’s attention and now, just before he might get out of the bathroom, his worst nightmare had happened.  Talk about bad luck.

“I think I’ll pass, Chastity,” King M3 replied in a businesslike voice, and Chaz slowly lifted his head, eyes going wide.  No way.

“Really?” he said hopefully, voice a little shaky.

“Yeah,” M3 said, a slight tinge of amusement to the word.  He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small handful of little shiny things, holding them out to Chaz.  “Thank you for the information, Chastity.  Here you go.”

Chaz stared at the shiny things with wide eyes, wondering what kind of horrors could possibly come in a package that small.  M3 continued to hold them out expectantly, and finally Chaz reached out, cautiously picking them up then yanking his hand back as fast as he could, like M3’s hand was an angry snake.

He looked down at the things in his hand, frowning.  They were little lumps wrapped in gold foil with a weird name Chaz couldn’t even begin to decipher printed on them.  Farrier Roaches?  Furry Reaches?  Something like that.  Chaz wasn’t a very good reader.

Feeling M3’s eyes on him, Chaz slowly peeled one open, frowning at the brown lump inside.  It kind of looked like poop, but it smelled good.  What was it for?

Chaz looked up at King M3 in confusion and the man’s brow furrowed a little.

“Eat it.”

Oh.  He was supposed to eat it?  Chaz inspected it a little more closely.  It didn’t look very appetizing, stuff that reminded him of poop never did, but hamburger had looked pretty nasty, too, until Staas made him try it.  It had been *really* good, one of the best things Chaz had ever eaten.

Chaz slowly stuck it in his mouth, eyes widening as it began to melt on his tongue, absolutely bombarding his senses.  God, it was so rich, so deep, so… Chaz couldn’t even describe it.  The closest he could come was to say it sort of tasted like the cocoa chips the slaves who worked at the sweets factory made out of the leftover shells of roasted cocoa beans.  Except this was like cocoa chips’ wealthy big brother, ten times as strong with an absolutely overwhelming taste.

Chalk lot, Chaz realized suddenly, putting a hand to his mouth in disbelief.  This was chalk lot, real chalk lot, the stuff they made at the sweets factory to be shipped all over the country to free men.  He’d heard stories of it from a few brave old men who worked at the factory—and only old men were used for work there, most of whom were old enough to know better than to try and sneak bites of the product—but this was a thousand times better than what they’d described.  It was even strong enough to cover up the salty ickiness left in his mouth.  Of course, all the different foods Staas had brought him over the past few months had been way better than the flat bread and mushy canned vegetables that were usual fair at the labor stables, but this was definitely the winner.  God, this was good.

He was in heaven.

“Alright then,” King M3 said, looking amused, probably at Chaz’s expense, but a this point he didn’t much care.  He was too busy enjoying the amazing taste in his mouth.  “Until we meet again, Chastity.”

Chaz practically moaned in pleasure as he slipped another of the candies in his mouth, suckling at it to make it last.  Forget whip scars and bruises and cages and broken bones, if it meant he got chalk lot then Staas was a lucky slave.

o o o

“Okay, before we get started,” Ward said, making a point of slapping down their HR files in the middle of the table, “I have some questions for you.”  He stared down the “best of the best,” taking pleasure at the looks of discomfort on their faces as they noted the names on the files.

Well, okay, he stared down three of them anyway.  But could you blame him for wanting to avoid looking Sweeney in the eye right that moment?  He was still a little red faced from the bathroom incident, though whether from anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure.  It wasn’t exactly professional of him, dropping his pants in the company bathroom and feeding some poor kid his dick for lunch.  The fact that Sweeney had caught him in the act was pretty much the essence of humiliating.  Talk about losing any chance whatsoever to make a strong impression.  Well, Ward supposed it *had* been a strong impression, just not in a good way.

Truth was, Ward was feeling a little guilty, and not only because it was unprofessional as hell.  That kid’s attempts to suck him off had been as pitiful as hell, making it clear that it was not the boy’s usual gig.  He should have just left the kid alone, but once again his loins had taken over his brain.  Sometimes it sucked to be a man.

“Actually,” Ward said as he leaned against the side of the conference table, tapping his chin in a caricature of thinking.  “I just have one question, really, then you can go ahead present the steaming piles of shit you’ve been stirring for the past six months.”

“What question is that, Mr. Jacobs?” Karen spoke up, stepping up to bat immediately.  She was a pretty thing, with cocoa colored skin, chin length black hair, and big brown eyes, but none of that could hide the Lara Croft shining in her eyes.  Ward had been right.  She was definitely an alpha bitch.

Ward raised an eyebrow.  “You think you’ll have the answer, Ms. Bronner?”

Karen sort of huffed, looking amused in a superior sort of way.  “I know this campaign inside and out, Mr. Jacobs.  I don’t think I’ll have an answer—I’m sure I will.”

Ward shrugged one shoulder.  “Okay, then.  My question is… Why is there a teenaged boy chained to a toilet in my corporate bathroom?”

Apparently that wasn’t exactly the question these asswipes had prepped for, because the room went dead still.  Jonas stopped shuffling his feet, George froze in mid-stretch, and Karen sat up so straight it looked painful.  Okay, the entire room didn’t go dead still, because King Weenie was still tossing his damn rubber band ball back and forth from hand to hand, just like he had been for the past ten minutes.  And unlike his constipated looking colleagues, Sweeney’s face was frozen in a seemingly professional smile with an underlying odor of superiority that Ward was starting to think of as the ‘M3 business smirk,’ considering he’d already seen it at least four times today.  The bastard should go out for a patent.

“Well?” he questioned, feigning surprise as he looked around the room.  “Any takers?  You all kind of look like you need to take a shit.  I heard about the enchiladas yesterday.  Are we having a repeat, or are the senior members of the best marketing team on the planet simply speechless?  Anyone have anything to say?”

George’s eyes dropped to his day planner, pen tapping nervously, while Jonas decided that now was a great time to stare at the skyline of Manhattan and Karen realized her skirt needed straightening.  Good.  At least these pricks weren’t so deluded that they thought keeping a sex toy in the men’s room at work was a-okay.

Ward held up his hands.  “Well?  Anybody at all?”

An amused sound came from Sweeney’s direction, and Ward glared in his direction, cutting him off before he could finish opening his mouth.  “Let me rephrase that.  Anybody but you.”

Ward had seen the disapproval on Sweeney’s face when he’d stepped out of that stall, as if the photocopy king had any ground to stand on.  Though it was well known that the man’s hobby was training sex slaves and that, if the media could be trusted, his exotic methods were as disturbing as they were captivating, Ward’s gut instinct told him the bastard felt sorry for the kid, and Ward had pretty good gut instincts.  Whoever was behind this stunt, it wasn’t Michael the Third.  Even that bastard had more class than this.  Ward wanted to hear the reasoning from the horse’s mouth, and he didn’t give a fuck if it pissed off Sweeney.

Far from being offended, however, Michael actually seemed interested for the first time since he’d entered the room.  The rubber band ball came to a halt and he swept his feet off the table, scooting his chair up so that he was sitting at the conference table properly.

Huh.  At least now he knew how to get the prick’s attention—make it clear that somebody else’s balls were gonna burn so the devil could watch the show.

“Well?” Ward prompted again as the other three did the pussy dance and sank down in their chairs like little kids in the principal’s office.  “Please, explain it to me.  I really wanna know.  Why is there a teenaged boy chained to a company pot?”

Apparently the Amazon Queen had recouped and was now ready to battle, because she folder her hands in front of her and spoke in a cool tone that made it clear her weapons were bared.  “You see, Mr. Jacobs—“

“Call me Ward,” he said, smirking at the flash of annoyance in her eyes as he interrupted her.  Yeah, pissing off these losers was gonna be a buttload of fun.

“Ward,” Karen countered smoothly, though Ward could still tell she was pissed.  “The slave is part of a test batch.”

Oh, well, that explained it *all.*  “A test batch,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Karen said, nodding to emphasize the point.  “Up until now, the private market’s standards have been very high.  It’s been a narrow market, open only to top notch slaves with good pedigrees, preferably stock bred in places of high reputation such as Zenith’s Isle of Baba or,” she made a point of looking at Sweeney, “the Southern Planation.”

“My father will be so pleased,” Sweeney put in dryly, and Ward snorted.

Karen glared in the man’s direction, then continued.  “They also want them young, well under sixteen—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ward said, not interested in listening to a list of the traits that made fat cats want to yank their sausage.  “Spare me the sales pitch.  Unfortunately, I attend black tie charity auctions too, Ms. Bronner—can I call you Karen?  I think I’ll call you Karen.  I’ve seen the bids fly high for that thirteen year old boy with a awkward resemblance to Sweeney’s overly attractive son, minus the personality that makes you wanna punch him in the teeth.  How about you skip to the part where there’s a kid tied to my pot, eh, Karen?”

“A kid tied to your pot.  What a poetic description,” Sweeney said in a tone much too serious to be, well, serious, and Ward shot him a look.

“What can I say?  I’m a man of few words.  So, Karen, if you would continue?”  It wasn’t really a question.

The woman cleared her throat, looking a little off balance.  Ward had a feeling that she was used to people offering their first born up for whatever she was selling the moment the bullshit began to flow off her tongue.

“Well, as I was saying, the demographic that has traditionally purchased privately owned slaves has very specific tastes.  The middle class, on the other hand, has about as much idea of what makes a good slave as they do about what makes a good wine.”

Oh, goody.  Here came the pretentious horse crap.

Karen’s superior smile wasn’t nearly as believable as King M3’s.  “The middle class will believe whatever they are told about the product because their palates are not refined enough to taste the subtle differences between mediocre and good, much less between good and great.”

“I agree completely,” Sweeney said, once again using that ‘way too serious to actually be serious’ voice.  “Every year I tell my father, ‘This is why poor people shouldn’t be allowed to vote.’”

Karen smiled at him in a disturbingly appreciative way, making Ward second guess his original impression of her IQ.

“Well, I don’t know that I would take it that far, Michael,” she said with a small laugh, “but it supports my point.”

Ward rolled his eyes and Karen’s brow furrowed, like she wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Yeah, I get it.  We’re here to sell the designer rejects to losers like me who don’t know the difference between a pleasure slave from the Isle of Baba and a slut with syphilis from a whorehouse in Harlem.  I get it guys.  That’s *why* they brought me in.  It’s what I do.  So how about you get back to the ‘test batch’ or whatever ridiculous title you’ve bequeathed to the five year old girl trapped in King Kong’s body over in the restrooms.”

“Seriously, you should take up poetry,” Michael said, rubber ball flying up in the air.  It took everything Ward had in him not to reach out and grab it.  Irritating prick.

Apparently pudgy faced George had managed to divine from the war paint appearing on Karen’s face in sweaty, darkened patches that anything coming out of her mouth for the next half hour would get them all sacked, because he quickly spoke up.

“You see, Ward,” he said conversationally, “there are hundreds of farms on US soil.”  He pushed his little round glasses up his chubby little button nose, which was exactly where Ward’s finger was going to go if he didn’t get some real answers soon.

“Their stock is in no way up to the standards of esteemed American slavers like the Southern Planation,” he continued, again with the look in Sweeney’s direction.  God, if they were gonna suck up to the King, they might as well do it to his cock.  “However, we can still label them as American made and place the Zenith name on them.”

“Uh huh,” Ward said, motioning for him to hurry the fuck up and spit it out.

“Every year these farms produce thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of mediocre slaves of average looks, intelligence, etcetera.  Even a facility as astounding as the Southern Plantation has its cast offs.”

“Actually, we drown them in bathtubs,” Sweeney said as he picked idly at his fingernails, voice casual enough that this time Ward wasn’t so sure he was joking.  “Or in cattle troughs, when Memaw gets tired of water getting tracked through the hallways.”

George blinked.  “Oh.  I didn’t, um,” he cleared his throat.  “That wasn’t in the statistics that I—“

“It’s a joke, George,” Sweeney said as he looked up, voice making it clear he thought the man was an idiot.  “Yes, we have castoffs.  So continue, but please try and hurry it up.  My boy has a tennis match at seven, and if he doesn’t make it, fits will be thrown.”  He shook his head in an almost regal way, lip curling up slightly.  Goddamn this dude was suave.  Ward wondered idly if he looked that aristocratic while crapping, too.  “The last fit cost me a four hundred year old Ming vase, an antique harpsichord, and a bottle of 1918 whiskey.”  He paused.  “Well, I drank the whiskey, but my point stands.”

Shit, no wonder the kid thought he could do anything he pleased.  Daddy spoiled his rich ass rotten.

George shifted uncomfortably.  “I’ll, um, try to be concise, Michael.”  He turned his attention back to Ward.  “Until now, all we’ve been able to do with the excess product is sell it by the bulk as labor or service slaves, which is a difficult business considering how cheap stock from Russia and Asia is.  If we can sell these slaves to private consumers, it’s a gold mine waiting to happen.”  He paused.  “That is, if said consumers are interested in such goods.  Hence the need for a test batch.”

Ward let out a sigh.  Damn these people were dense.  Ask one fucking question and you got a diatribe.

“I get it, guys,” he snapped.  “Stick a fancy name on a low end good so the little guy who buys it will think he’s hot stuff.  After all, he don’t know any better.  It’s a fantastic strategy.  A stroke of brilliance, never done before.”  Ward sneered.  “Y’know, except by every designer clothing company from Paris and Taiwan.  Have you people ever *been* to a department store?  The floor is flooded with passing mentions of Prada and Chanel and Jimmy Choo, but there ain’t an actual designer clog in sight.  It’s a mid-tier mind game.  I get the plan, but I don’t think you guys get my question.”

The three stooges just sort of sat there while Sweeney smiled like Satan getting a hand job.

Ward sighed again.  “Jonas,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the kid, who was currently playing with the hem of his low end Dolce and Gabana shirt—or should he say ‘D&G’—like he was bored as hell.  “What about you?  You got an answer for me, son?”

Jonas looked up, sticking his chin in the air.  “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me ‘son,’ Ward,” he said in a nasally voice.  “Being in a position like this at my age is a testament to my untempered skills, and I don’t want that to be diminished by monikers implying that I am in some way less qualified due to my age.”

Ward’s eyebrows shot up.  Were you kidding him?  Seriously, were you fucking kidding him?  At least he wasn’t alone on this.  Karen had a pained look on her face, while George seemed on the edge of puking, and Sweeney was so damn straight faced that Ward was sure he was laughing his ass off inside.

 

“Listen here, Skywalker,” Ward said in a cold tone.  “I suggest you go home and practice your superior shit in the mirror for a couple of years.  Try some Method Acting lessons or something.  Once you can pull off being a total prick as subtly as King M3 over here,” he tipped his head in Michael’s direction, “then you can spout it off to me again, secure in the knowledge that you’re such a sneaky son of a bitch that not a single word of it will be enough to get you canned.  Until then, if I ever hear crap like that from you again, *son*, your Star Wars bobble heads and secret porno stash will be making friends with a cardboard box from the copy room as you pack up your desk and all your aging colleagues laugh behind your toddler ass.  You got me?”

Jonas paled dramatically, but a stubborn look came over his face.  Oh, lovely.  Someone’s manhood was at stake.  Great.  See, this was what all that ‘stand up to bullies’ bullcrap therapy got you—prickish little asses who didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut.  Luckily, Ward had no problem with putting this loser’s head in a toilet if he had to.

“I’m sorry, Ward,” the kid said, doing a relatively good job of hiding the fact that he was about to piss his panties.  “But you say we don’t understand your question.  I think maybe you’re the one who doesn’t get it.  You wanted to know about the test batch, we told you why we need a test batch.  To see how our target market will respond to these mid-level slaves.

Ward huffed in disbelief, shaking his head.  “Am I speaking Klingon and don’t know it?  If I am, please let me know, because I’ve got a geeky cousin who would shit himself in joy to have someone to chat with.”

“I speak Klingon,” Jonas said arrogantly, “along with Russian, French, and Japanese.”

“Yeah, and that’s why you’re still a virgin,” Ward shot back, smirking as Jonas sort of cringed and hunched his shoulders.  He shoots, he scores.  “Seriously, am I going out of my mind here?”

“I think what Ward is trying to ask,” Michael said in his annoyingly professional voice, “is not why we ordered a test batch, but, if I may quote… why the hell is there a teenaged boy chained to his company pot?”

“Thank you,” Ward said sarcastically, clapping theatrically.  “Bravo.  Let’s give the man a hand.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Now answer the damn question!”

“Oh.  Right,” George said, a bit of sweat trickling down his forehead.  “Like I said, we gathered together a test batch of slaves with various attributes but which all fall under the heading of ‘average’ in order to gather statistics in regards to the market response.  The boy slave—“

“Chastity,” Michael interrupted.

George blinked, looking at Michael as he dabbed at his forehead with a tissue.  “What?”

“The slave’s called Chastity.”  Michael raised an eyebrow pointedly in the man’s direction.  “I would think you, of all people, would know that, George.  You make quite a few bathroom visits.  This is, of course, assuming that you are not incontinent, despite your elderly looks.”

Ever George’s bald spot went red.  He cleared his throat, pointedly turning away from Michael, and plowed ahead.  Ward had to give him credit for that.  “The point being, we had one of the batch sent here so we could take a look at the goods and better understand what sort of product we would be dealing with.  We needed someplace to keep it, and the restroom seemed like the logical answer.”

Oh, yeah, totally logical.  A public restroom was the *first* place Ward would think to keep a slave.  What a bunch of idiots.

“I know it seems awkward,” Karen said in a clipped tone, “but we had to put him somewhere.”

“And as a longtime connoisseur of homosexual establishments, I can vouch for the compelling history and intriguing traditions of the species ‘publicus restroomian homoservus,’” Michael added with a completely straight face.  The smug bastard.

Ward grimaced.  Shit.  If this really was Zenith’s ‘best of the best,’ they were going to need more than a miracle worker.  They were going to need Jesus Christ himself.

“Alright,” he said tiredly, sick of this conversation.  “Whatever.  I don’t even care anymore.  So…  Which one of you has the key to the lock?”

 

o o o

“But I don’t want to, Daddy,” Cocksucker Lips whined like a goddamn girl as he glared up at papa.  “I like him there.  He’s my pet.”

“He’s not your pet, Staas,” Michael replied in an astoundingly patient tone considering that his spoiled shit of a son had been bitching for ten minutes straight now.

“Is every day take your kid to work day here or something?” Ward questioned, tipping his chair back on two legs as he watch the duo.  “He was here yesterday, too.”

“He’s supposed to be in summer school, but he keeps skipping,” Karen said, looking annoyed.  “And Michael doesn’t trust him home alone, so here he is.”

“You know he’s not his son though, right?” Jonas said, eyes going bright at the chance to get in a little gossip.  Making up for all those days spent stuffed in a locker instead of hanging with the boys, Ward guessed.

“You mean he’s adopted?” Ward asked, not really surprised.  “I figured something like that, since he’s an ice queen and Sweeney’s classic tall, dark, and handsome.”

“No,” Jonas said, grinning widely.  Someone was *way* to happy to be in with the cool crowd.  “He’s his slave.  And not from the Southern Plantation, either.  Cheap stock from Russia.  Didn’t you see the tat on his neck?”

No, Ward hadn’t seen the tat on his neck, but the kid *had* been toting a cappuccino maker the size of Robert Buttstuffer’s dick the one time he’d seen him up close.

“Wait a second, the kid is his slave?” Ward said, brow wrinkling up.  “And he calls him ‘dad?’”

“Kinky, right?” Jonas said, looking satisfied.

Ward snorted.  Someone had a soft core idea of ‘kinky.’  “Please.  He treats him like a fucking son.  Maybe I want my slave to call me daddy, but I don’t wipe his ass for him, and it looks like that’s what Nanny Michael is doing over there for little Staas.”

“Michael raised him,” Karen said with a shrug.  “Since he was little.  Brat goes to an Ivy League prep school and everything.  He’s on the damn rowing team with the sons of billionaires and politicians.”

“Really?” Jonas said, looking confused.  “I thought the whole schoolboy outfit was a sex thing.”

Karen rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, they’re a regular little father and son act.  You know, until they get all pawish.”

“Trust me,” George said in a sour voice, crossing his arms over his chest, “that man has *no* high ground to stand on when it comes to the misuse of bathroom stalls.  I don’t know who he thinks he is, talking about what *I* do when he and that little bitch spend their coffee breaks in the handicap stall.”

Ward grimaced.  Was this an office or a damn brothel?  And really, the King was banging Lips?  Sure, Ward could understand the appeal, but how did you buttfuck someone one minute, then half an hour later lecture them on getting their homework in on time?  It just seemed… awkward.  But hey, to each their own.  Hell, who was he to judge?  He spent his nights fantasizing about ramming a paraplegic named ‘Prance.’  Talk about irony.

“How about this,” Michael said, glaring down at the boy.  “You pick the lock or I take the second cellphone you think I don’t know about and give it to Senator Vanderhoff so he can take his time examining the many pictures you’ve taken of his daughter’s breasts.  And I’m sure he’ll be very impressed by you sexting skills as well.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open.  “That’s not fair!  It’s my phone!”

“No,” Michael replied shortly.  “When you get a job working at Burger King and start earning enough money to pay the bill every month, then it’s your phone.  Until then, it’s my phone.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Staas said, looking sullen.  “Fine, I’ll pick the damn lock.”  He pouted, giving Ward a nice idea of what his lips would look like wrapped around a dick.  “I don’t see why you have to take away my best pet.”

“We’ll get you a fish, Michael replied dryly.  He turned, raising an eyebrow in Ward’s direction.  “Okay, boss.  Let’s go clean up the restroom.”


	4. Nowhere to Go

For once the familiar sound of the bathroom door opening actually made Chaz perk up, an ugly bit of hope making his heart pound and his stomach twist.  Ugly, because for all he knew the boss had changed his mind the second he’d stepped out of the door, or may have never even meant it to begin with.  It wouldn’t be the first time Chaz had been lied to.

Men had to piss, so the door to his bathroom opening didn’t really *mean* anything, not really.  All he could do was cross his fingers and hope…

The door to Chaz’s stall swung open, and he made a soft sound as he took in the gaggle of people outside, sinking back against his toilet.  He hadn’t expected half of the office.

There was the pale, fat man who visited at least twice a day to put his thing in Chaz’s mouth, along with the young guy who routinely came in and yelled at the toilet about how one day those jock bastards would be the ones with their heads down in there, whatever that meant.  There was also a woman, which was really weird since this was the men’s room, but she had a sort of mannish quality about her, despite her womanly curves, so Chaz guessed it was okay.  King M3 was there too, a sly smile on his face, which was kinda unsettling,  his arm wrapped around Staas’ shoulders.  Staas was pouting, curly blonde hair hanging in face, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks a little redder than normal, like he was pissed about something.  Hopefully the anger wasn’t directed at Chaz.

Most importantly, though, the new boss was there, and he was even smiling.  Probably.  It was kind of hard to tell if this new guy was smiling or grimacing.  He just had one of those faces, overly tanned and kind of leathery, with the short, patchy kind of beard that came from forgetting to shave rather than making an actual decision to grow facial hair.  His eyes were a light hazel color, with little wrinkles around them that Chaz was pretty sure didn’t come from being happy, making him look older.  He had thick eyebrows and a short, careless haircut that spoke of absolutely no interest in fashion.  All and all, he was sort of M3’s opposite, all patchy and rough and far from put together.  Even his clothes were kind of awkward, khaki pants with a light blue dress shirt only buttoned up three quarters of the way, and a very poorly knotted navy tie that hung like a noose. 

The man definitely had an aura of power to him, though, radiating it at least as much as King M3 did, even without the careful dress and the dark, slicked back hair and the traditionally handsome looks.  He was attractive in a gruff way, and everything about him spoke of the type of person who put it all out there so that you could take it or leave it.  That was good.  Chaz liked masters like that.  Men like King M3, you could never be sure what they were thinking, and you could never know what they might do next.  Not knowing was scary, and Chaz would much rather be told something bad was going to happen than be left to worry about what might or might not happen for weeks and weeks on end.

“Okay, kiddo,” the new boss said, lips curving up, and this time it was a smile for sure.  “It’s time to exit the bathroom.  Sweeney?”

King M3 stepped forward, squatting down in front of Chaz.  The closeness made him feel a little sick, a feeling he was quickly coming to associate with the man.  Chaz dropped his eyes quickly, unwilling to hold that frightening gaze for long.  Just because M3 had given him treats didn’t mean he should let his guard down.  Chaz knew what kind of master the King was, and if he couldn’t hide from him, then he’d better be on his best behavior.

“Chastity,” M3 said in a calm, even voice, “it seems that the key to your anklet has been misplaced.”

Chaz looked up sharply, fear washing over him.  Lost?  Did that mean he’d have to stay here forever?  Surely not.  There had to be another way to get it off.

A sudden image of his leg being hacked off flashed through his mind, making him want to whimper, despite how silly it was.  They wouldn’t cut off his leg in the bathroom, not when they could just saw through the metal.  …Right? 

The King must have read the look on his face, because he reached out, placing a hand on Chaz’s shoulder and giving it what was probably meant to be a comforting squeeze.  Not that Chaz was comforted.  At all.  In fact, it took everything he had not to jerk away.

“No worries, though, boy.  Staas is going to pick the lock, okay?”

Pick the lock?  The only people Chaz knew who could pick locks were slaves who worked as locksmiths.  When had Staas become a locksmith?

“Do I really have to?” Staas asked as M3 stood up, a sour look on his face.  Somehow he still managed to be beautiful, though.  Chaz really didn’t know how he did it.

“He’s the only fun one here,” Staas continued, glaring at the King.  “More fun than you.”

“You wound me with your words,” M3 said in a flat voice that made think Chaz he wasn’t wounded one bit.  “I’ll get you a puppy, okay?  Or you can pick out one of the boys off Papaw’s ranch and take him home.  But you’d better remember to feed him.”

“I feed Chastity!” Staas said, which was technically true.  Whenever the boy came to the office, he always brought Chaz food.  Good food, too.  Food better than anything Chaz had ever tasted, when it wasn’t loaded with laxatives, that is. 

The rest of the time, a weird old lady slid stale bread and mushy beans under his door along with papers that had lots of words typed on them.  Most of them were beyond Chaz’s limited vocabulary of factory terms—he had no idea what ‘a pock lipstick’ or ‘ex oh dust’ was—but he read well enough to know they had something to do with God letting people go somewhere and their water getting all bloody if they didn’t.  Hopefully whoever this woman’s God was didn’t decide to put blood in Chaz’s water any time soon.  It was bad enough drinking from a toilet without the most essential bodily fluid of all added into the mix.

“Chastity is not your pet, Staas,” M3 said, looking as though his patience was starting to wear thin.

Staas sighed dramatically as dropped down on his knees in front of Chaz.  “Okay, okay,” he said, in an annoyed voice.  He paused as his icy blue eyes locked with Chaz, a frown tugging at his lips and a surprisingly sad look coming over his face.  “But I am gonna miss him.”

Chaz felt his cheeks turn red as the other boy reached out and gently brushed his hair off his forehead.  The funny thing was, he was going to miss Staas, too.  Sure, the boy mostly drove him crazy, always playing tricks on him and making mean jokes, but he really was the only person Chaz had any connection to at all in this building, or anywhere, really.  Labor slaves didn’t get a whole lot of time for socializing, and friendships tended to be fleeting since they got shuffled around a lot.  Plus, Chaz hadn’t been the most popular slave in the stable, and fellow slaves had tended to avoid him, not wanting to be associated with ‘the Bossman’s favorite.’

“Um, thanks?” Chaz said, not sure if that was the appropriate response, and Staas grinned in reply.

“Are you gonna miss me, big boy?” his voice was teasing, and Chaz gave a shrug, giving him a game little smile.

“I dunno,” he said, hesitating for a moment the deciding to take a leap.  “Where am I going?” Chaz asked, biting his lip as he looked up at the new boss.

“Out of this damn bathroom,” the man replied, shaking his head in disgust.  “Hey, Cocksucker Lips, pick the damn lock already.”

“Hey!” Staas said, sounding indignant.  “You can’t call me that!”  He turned, glaring up at M3.  “Right, Dad?”

“Hm?” M3 said, looking mildly amused.  “Oh yes…” He glanced in the direction of the new boss.  “Please refrain from referring to my son as Cocksucker Lips, Mr. Jacobs.  It’s his throat that has the real talent.  Give credit where credit is due.”

“Oh, fuck you, Daddy,” Staas muttered as he pulled two little metal sticks out of a small black case.  “Give me your foot, Chastity.”

Chaz slowly stuck out his foot, holding his breath as Staas began to work.  Oh, man, it was really happening. He was really going to be free of this toilet!

“This shouldn’t take long,” Staas said absently as he moved the picks around in the lock.  “This is a cheap piece of shit.  I dunno why you haven’t used your ogre magic to rip it off.”

Chaz frowned, not sure what that meant.  “I don’t have any magic.”  Unlike Staas, with his perfect looks and his amazing sexing.

“He means that you’re obviously very strong, Chastity,” King M3 said in a mild voice.  “Strong enough to break that lock, most likely.”

“Oh,” Chaz said, frowning again.  “I didn’t really think about that.  This is where they put me.”

There was a short, slightly awkward silence as the people gathered outside of his stall sort of looked at each other in funny ways, giving Chaz the feeling that he was missing something.  After a moment, the new boss chuckled and said, “Well, we can definitely go all out promoting the product’s obedience.”

Staas snorted, sitting back as the lock opened with a soft click.  “There.  Chastity is free,” he said, not looking too thrilled.  “It’s still no fair.”

“Quit whining, Staas,” M3 replied in an irritated voice.

“Chaz, can you stand up?” the new boss asked, and Chaz gave a short nod. 

“Yes, Mister, um… I’m sorry, sir, but I forgot your name, sir.”  Chaz had been too busy trying to figure out why the hell the guy was freaking out in his stall to really make a note of it.

“Howard Jacobs,” he replied, rubbing at his scruffy chin.  “Call me Ward.”

Chaz used the toilet to help him climb to his feet.  His ankle felt unusually light without a hunk of metal strapped around it, and a smile began to grow on his face.  He quickly got it under control though, dropping his eyes and holding his hands politely behind his back.  That was what they were supposed to do at the factory whenever the Owner walked by or at the start of the day when Bossman would give the talks about what he wanted done.

Chaz also bent a little at the knees and sort of hunched his shoulders.  He’d quickly learned that his size made freemen act really funny, though he didn’t know why.  Bossman said it was ‘cause they were intimidated, but Chaz couldn’t imagine anybody being intimidated by him.  He’d never hurt anybody, ever, and he did his very best to be a good slave.  The only whippings he’d ever gotten were for accidents, never for how he was acting.  Plus, he tried to be nice to everyone, even though a lot of his fellow slaves were pretty mean to him, calling him a masterlover and a bitch slave ‘cause he did stuff for Bossman.

“Okay,” Ward the Boss said, deep wrinkles appearing around his mouth as he frowned.  “Now on to step two.  What the hell are we going to do with him?”

o o o

The best of the best were staring at him like a bunch of frickin’ idiots, something that was apparently going to be a regular occurrence. 

Ward should never have taken this damn job.

Chaz was standing at the far end of the conference room in front of the projector screen, looking understandably awkward.  He was a damn labor slave who had been working on assembly lines by five and hammering nails by ten, and that was where he belonged, not in some fancy office.  Hell, he was still wearing his blue factory uniform shirt with ‘SLAVE N-72’ embroidered on the pocket and his goddamn work boots, the same clothes he’d apparently been wearing for the past few months.  It was a wonder that a small whiff of BO was all you got when you walked by him.  You’d think he’d smell like a sewer by now. 

Actually, that was a good point.  Why *didn’t* the kid smell like a sewer by now?

“Chaz,” Ward said curiously, “why don’t you smell?”

The kid lifted his face, looking a little lost.  “Um, I washed last night, Mr. Ward.”

Ward shot a glance at his employees, most of whom were fiddling their thumbs, probably wondering if their jobs were going to be up for grabs pretty soon now.  Except for M3, of course, who was still wearing his smug face.  Ward was starting to think it was the only face the bastard had.

“How did you wash, Chaz?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.  “I’m taking a leap here and thinking none of these assfucks took you to the shower.”

Chaz’s cheeks went red and he hunched over even more than he already was.  It was like he was trying to make himself smaller, though Ward didn’t know why he would do that.  He was big.  Labor slaves were supposed to be big.  It was a good thing.

“Mr. Henshaw the janitor gives me what’s left when he changes the soap dispensers, then I wash in the toilet, then I wash my clothes in the toilet, too, if I have any soap left.”  Chaz gave him a worried look, like he was afraid it was the wrong answer.

Man, the kid sure had a soft voice.  Gentle and sweet and innocent, like a grandma’s, yet he was built like a goddamn linebacker.

“Okay, well, he’s resourceful,” Ward said, jotting it down in his head.  “I’m betting most slaves are.  I mean, they kind of have to be, right?”

“So I’ve seen,” Michael said, steepling his fingers under his chin as he studied the boy.  “They do what they have to do.”

Ward sighed, shaking his head.  “So this is what we’ve got to sell, and all you people could come up with was a stupid and mildly offensive jingle with a big thumbs up for the cherry on top?”

“I rather liked it,” Michael said, smirking.  “Stand up for your rights and say, ‘I deserve a slave todaaaay!’”  He drew out the last note, and Ward glared in his direction, scowling when the man’s lip twitched in amusement.  Asshole.

“Well, it’s not exactly an easy product to push,” Jonas spoke up.  “I mean, look at him.  He’s a big, ugly lug who should be building a house, not laying in your bed.  If this is the kind of product we’re going to get, obviously we can’t show the reality of it.”

Chaz’s face was bright red now and he began to tug at the hem of his shirt, shuffling his work boots and looking generally embarrassed, like the big kid he was.  A big, sexy kid.

“Are you kidding me?” Ward said, shooting Jonas a disgusted look.  “Even malnourished as hell, he’s hot as a firecracker with a touch of cute to soften the blow.  Six foot fiveish, biceps to die for, broad shoulders, a tight ass.  Those little freckles on his nose, and the way he bats his eyelashes when he gets nervous?  Fags everywhere would leap at the chance to have a pet like him.  He’s a big boy with that cute almost-virgin thing going on.  Hell, *I’d* buy that.”

Chaz definitely didn’t look any less embarrassed now that Ward had tooted his horn.  In fact, he now looked like he wanted to melt through the floor and disappear, but Ward had said was true.  The kid was big, yeah, but he was still sexy.  Sure, most pleasure slaves were pretty little things, girly and delicate and all that crap, but that didn’t mean people wouldn’t buy big and handsome if it was offered to them, especially at a good price.

“Please,” Jonas said, waving the words away.  “First of all, he’s a total idiot.  Have you tried talking to him?  He doesn’t know who Shakespeare is.  He can’t tell you the name of the President.  He thinks jelly beans grow on stalks and make jelly when you crush them.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, an annoyed look coming over his face.  “Really, Jonas?” he said, his superior tone making it *very* clear that if anyone was gonna spit in people’s faces, it was gonna be him.  “The boy has spent his entire life working in a factory somewhere.  I don’t think they take time to teach them classic literature, I highly doubt he has regular access to television or newspapers, and considering that he’s probably never seen a jelly bean, I would say that his conclusions regarding their origin and use are fairly logical.  You have no idea how intelligent he is or is not.”

“Hey, slave,” Jonas said, making Chaz stiffen as he looked over nervously at the man.  “How do you spell ‘apple?’”

Ward narrowed his eyes.  Man, this Jonas was a little prick.  Didn’t he have anything better to do than try and humiliate some poor slave.  Ha.  Chaz probably reminded him of the jocks who’d held his head in the toilets.

Chaz bit his lip, brow furrowing up in concentration.  “I… I’m not sure,” he said after a moment, his voice even softer than usual.  “A-h-p-u-l-l?”

Jonas and Karen both laughed out loud, the bitches, and Chaz’s shoulders slumped, his whole face red with embarrassment now.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ward,” Chaz said softly, “but he’s right.  I’m not very smart.  I just build stuff.”

“Chastity,” Michael said before Ward could reply, “if you have a roof span of thirty-two feet and a rise of eight feet, what is the pitch of the roof?”

Chaz perked back up a little, eyes narrowing in concentration.  “Um… The pitch would be six-twelve.”  He paused.  “Am I supposed to build a roof?”

Michael shot a derisive Jonas’ way, and, for once, Ward was all for the stuck up bastard using his powers for evil.  That Jonas was a piece of work.

“Did anyone bother to tell the kid why he was here?” Ward asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Anyone at all?”

“Hammersmith was afraid that it might impede our research,” Michael said in a clipped tone.  “Something about the product adjusting its behavior of it knew why it was here.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Ward asked, a wrinkle appearing in his forehead, and Michael shrugged.

“Ask Hammersmith.  Believe it or not, he was less inclined to hearing my opinion than you are, so don’t expect me to explain his psychology.”

Less inclined than Ward?  Damn, Hammersmith must have gagged the guy every morning.  Kinky.

“Okay, kid,” Ward said with a little sigh, “it’s like this.  Now that Edderday v. Kentucky has declared that everybody should be able to own slaves, Zenith wants to market stock like you to the everyday joe.”

Chaz just looked confused.  “At her day eve what?”

“You haven’t heard about Edderday?” Ward asked, surprised.  Sure, he could understand the kid not being up on politics or immersed in literature, but labor slaves weren’t totally cut off, were they?  “I’d figured even slaves out in the salt mines or whatever had gotten the word about Edderday, there’s been so much fuss.”

The boy bit his lip again, a rather cute little habit in Ward’s opinion, then shook his head.  “I worked eighteen hours a day at the factory.  Then they’d bus us back to the stables to eat and wash and sleep.  I don’t know much about anything, really.  Except how to weld steel and make glass and stuff.”

“You worked eighteen hours a day?” Karen said, looking shocked.  Personally, Ward didn’t find it all that surprising.  Why not work your slaves to death?  There were more being popped out every day.  That’s what slave plantations were for.

“Only on weekdays,” Chaz said quickly, like he was afraid he had somehow offended her.  “On weekends we only worked sixteen, so I got to sleep for almost six hours.”  He said that with a big smile, like getting an almost-decent amount of shut eye was a fucking six figure bonus.  “How come anybody would buy a labor slave, anyway?” Chaz said, smile disappearing.  “Do people got stuff to build in their homes?”

“No, Zenith wants to turn labor slaves and service slaves into personal slaves,” Ward explained.  “And sell you for more money.”

“I don’t think I’d make a very good personal slave,” Chaz said quietly, shrinking down a little as he glanced in George’s direction.  “I’m not very good at… stuff.”

“They’d train you first,” Ward said, though he wasn’t sure how you turned a boy who insisted on calling men’s penises their ‘things’ into a pleasure slave.  Not his problem, though.  He was there to sell it, not to make it.  “The point is, we have to market it, whether it’s a good idea or not.  Do you know what that means, Chaz?”

Chaz shook his head silently. 

“It means it’s our job to make people want to buy slaves like you.”

“Oh,” the boy said slowly, like he was turning the idea over in his head.  “Okay.”

“We’re going to need your help, though,” Ward said in a solemn sort of tone, like he was handing out a mission to James Bond.  It was obvious that this kid wanted badly to please, well, everybody.  If Ward wanted to get the most out of him he could, he should come at it from that angle.  “We need to know what slaves like you can do.  We can already tell you’re resourceful and that you try really hard.  So, why don’t you tell us what you were actually trained in?”

Chaz nodded slowly.  “Okay… I was trained in welding, glass making, basic construction, paving, assembly line maintenance, woodworking, and harvesting.”  He paused, then added.  “I can drive a forklift.”

“Okay, so basic labor slave skills,” Ward said.  “Anything else you can think of?  Anything at all?  Feel free to be an open book, kid.”

Chaz frowned deeply, obviously working hard to come up with something.  “Um, I know how to sew.  And I can make wine.”

Ward’s eyebrows shot up.  Winemaking.  That was unexpected.

Chaz must have noticed the look on his face, because his cheeks went red.  “Bossman liked wine.  We would make it for him.  I dunno how good it was, but it was okay for Bossman.”

“Nice,” Ward said.  “So, your slave might come with some surprising extras—buy one and find out.  I like it.  Anything else?  You have any talents?  You’re obviously strong.  Did you have any schooling at all?” 

“Um, I can lift about three hundred pounds,” Chaz replied, “sometimes more… it depends on what I gotta pick up.  And I can reach stuff up high and run fast.  I can read directions and I can do factory math.”  He paused, frowning slightly.  “I…I think that’s it.”  He looked at Ward apologetically.

“Hey, it’s all good,” Ward said, shrugging.  “You’re trained for what you’re supposed to be trained for.  Now it’s our job to deal with it.”  He frowned.  “First thing we need to do is look into what kind of retraining Zenith plans to do on the product before distribution as Your Slave!”

“It’s my understanding that they don’t plan to do any at all,” Michael said.  “Or, at most, they plan to do a sort of weekend crash course before they ship them out.”

Ward’s eyebrows shot up.  “So, what, we’re just gonna sell a bunch of slaves trained to drive forklifts as pleasure slaves and house slaves?”

Michael shrugged.  “That’s my understanding.”

Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic.

Ward let out an irritated sigh.  “My day just keeps getting better and better.”  He glanced at his watch, frowning.  “It’s almost time for the meet and greet, and I’d rather not have yanked all my fucking hair out before I get there, so let’s get back to this tomorrow and deal with the big issue right now.  What the hell are we going to do with Chaz over there?”

“I take it the bathroom is no longer an option?” Karen asked tentatively, and Ward glared at her. 

“Yeah, the bathroom’s out,” Ward sad flatly.  “So where’s he gonna go?  He ain’t going to my house, that’s for sure.  I live in a goddamn one bedroom apartment.  I don’t need his ass filling up my living room.”  Especially considering the living room was pretty much where Ward made his home.  Chaz was definitely not going with him.  He lived in a freaking dump.

“Well,” old pudgy said, looking all shifty eyed and licking his lips in a way that made Ward want to puke in his lap.  “I suppose I could take him home…”

Great.  Pervert George wanted the kid.  Surprise, surprise.

“I don’t think so,” Michael said in a clipped tone, surprising Ward.  “He would be better off in the restroom.”

Huh.  King M3 really seemed to have a soft spot for this one.  Wonder of wonders.

“Well, how bout you take him, then?” Ward said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Michael frowned, turning toward Ward.  “Excuse me?”

Ward shrugged.  “You take him.  I mean, you’re rich as shit, so I’m sure you’ve got room, and the little whore who doubles as your son seems to like him well enough.  You take him.”

Michael shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking his nose in the air in a very regal way.  Stuck up asswipe.  “I have more than enough slaves, Ward.”

“Please,” Ward said, waving the words away.  “They’re like potato chips.  Can’t eat just one.”  He glanced over at Karen.  “Write that down.  I like that.”  He looked back over at Michael, smirking.  “Take him or leave him.  It’s you or our good friend George over there.  Your choice.”

Michael’s lips tightened, and he glared at Ward for a long moment before letting out a sigh.  “Fine, he can come home with me.  *Temporarily.*  Then we find him some place else to go.”

“Works for me,” Ward lied, having zero intention of making any sort of effort to find Chaz a new home, not if it meant he got to keep M3 in the hot spot.  There was nothing like knocking the smug look off a rich bastard’s face.

Chaz made a small sound, and Ward look over, surprised by the terrified look on his face.  “You okay, kid?” he asked, wondering if a nuclear bomb had just been dropped on the city and he’d missed the bang.

The boy’s eyes were locked on Michael, his face white as a sheet and his eyes about to pop out of his freaking head.  What the hell was up with that? 

Michael cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.  “From what I’ve gathered, he’s a little frightened of me.”

“You think?” Ward said, brow furrowing a little.  What had Michael done to freak the kid out like that?  Ward was good at reading people and while it was obvious King M3 was a pervert and a pedophile, he was pretty sure the man hadn’t actually done anything to deserve the look on that boy’s face.

“Apparently he thinks I am actually a king,” Michael said as way of explanation, and Ward let out a huff of laughter, looking over at the man in disbelief.

“You told him you’re a king?”

“No, I didn’t tell him I’m a king,” Michael snapped back, looking irritated.  “He’s probably heard gossip.  You know what the media calls me, much to my intense disdain.”

Oh, please.  The son of a bitch probably sucked it up like gravy.  “Whatever,” Ward said, rolling his eyes.  “Chaz, you can stop with the face of death.  I promise, if the great King M3 hurts you, I’ll fire his rich ass in the middle of Times Square, and I’ll make sure every paparazzi hit squad from here to Harlem has him in their sights when I do it.  On that note, this meeting is adjourned.”  Ward stood up then paused, glaring down at his new team.  “Oh, and do me favor.  Wash off all the bullshit before I see you again tomorrow.”

o o o

There were so many people!  Chaz hadn’t realized that there were this many people in the whole *world.*  Everywhere he looked, buildings of all shapes and sizes were simply teeming with them, like a concrete ant hill crawling with human beings.

The streets were full of men and women and boys and girls, dressed in all sorts of colors and all sorts of clothes, with all types of skin and eyes and hair…  Oh, the hair!  Chaz had even seen a girl with blue curls cascading down her back.  He hadn’t even realized hair came in that color.

Though the car they were riding in was fairly spacious, big enough that Chaz didn’t even have to duck his head, it was still an enclosed space, and normally Chaz would have had his eyes locked on King M3, watching for any subtle sign that he was about to strike.  But today, Chaz couldn’t pry his eyes away from the windows.

The factories and the slave stable were out in the country, surrounded by trees and dirty.  This place… it was like another world.  Chaz had caught glimpses of buildings rising like palaces out of the smog from the conference room windows, but the view from the sky was nothing compared to the one down here on earth. 

Colored lights flashed, cars honked, tires squealed, people shouted and waved and walked.  It engulfed the senses.  Pictures were everywhere, huge up above and smaller down below, and showed images of everything from tropical paradises to toothbrushes to women with no clothes.  The few glimpses of television Chaz had caught over the years hadn’t done life in the city justice.

It was overwhelming, and wonderful.

“This is so awesome,” Staas said, tugging on Chaz’s sleeve, bringing the boy’s attention back to reality.  “You’re way better than a fish.  And I didn’t want a boy off Papaw’s farm.  I like you.”

“He’s not your pet,” M3 said, sounding irritated.  “And he’s not staying with us.  This is only for tonight.”

“Please,” Staas said, making a rude noise.  “I saw the look on Jacobs’ face when y’all came out of that meeting.  This kid is yours, whether you like it or not, Daddy.  Are you gonna train him?”

Chaz stiffened, swallowing hard.  *Was* the King going to train him?  God, he hoped not.  But he was going to the man’s *home.*  He would have to train him, wouldn’t he?  Chaz wasn’t sure, since he’d never lived in anyone’s home, but considering that everything Chaz knew about life was regulated to a factory, there would have to be something, wouldn’t there?

M3 sighed, eyeing him.  “He’s already trained, Staas.  Look at him.  I train pleasure slaves.  He’s a labor slave, not a pleasure slave.”

“So change him,” Staas said with a shrug.  “Isn’t that the point of this whole project?”  He laughed, a wicked look coming over his face.  “Not that you really give a damn about this project.”

“Shut your mouth, Staas,” M3 said sharply, quickly moving the subject back on track.  “He’s too old to train as a pleasure slave, anyway.”

“Hey, Chaz, you wanna be a pleasure slave?” Staas asked, smirking, and Chaz stared at him, not sure how, exactly, he was supposed to answer that.

Did he want to be a pleasure slave?  No, not particularly, not if it was anything like being the pet bathroom slave.  On the other hand, Staas was really his only ally here, and he obviously wanted Chaz to say yes, and if Chaz didn’t, Staas might be mad.  But at the same time, King M3 obviously wanted Chaz to say no, and if he didn’t, then *M3* might be mad.  Man, all these ‘ifs’ were beginning to make him feel sick to his stomach.

“Whatever my master wants,” Chaz replied after a moment, words a little shaky.  Hopefully that would please both of them.  He really didn’t want either of them mad at him right now.

“Wow,” Staas said, looking amused.  “It always gets me how *good* some of them are.  Was I ever that good?”

“For about five minutes,” M3 said flatly.  “Until you figured that, unlike your Russian masters, I was unwilling to waterboard you for stealing a piece of bread.  It was all down hill from there.”

 Waterboarding?  What was waterboarding?  Obviously not something good.  Chaz shrunk down in his seat.  Somehow he didn’t think he wanted to be waterboarded.

“I… I try to be good,” Chaz said softly, hoping that if he spoke up some, M3 might like him more.  He seemed to like Staas, and Staas never shut up.  “Your Highness.”

Staas snorted.  “He’s not a fucking king, Chastity.  It’s a stupid nickname the paparazzi gave to him when he was, like, five.  He doesn’t even like it.  Auntie Belle, on the other hand… Or should I say, Queen Sween?  She’s quite happy with it.”

“Auntie Belle is an irritating bitch,” M3 said in a perfectly calm tone.  “But my son is correct.  I am not, in any way, a king, Chastity.  You may call me Michael.  You may call me Mr. Sweeney.  But please refrain from calling me king.”

Okay, so officially not a king.  But wasn’t his name M3?  Sure, Chaz had heard people call him ‘Michael’ and ‘Sweeney,’ but most of what he knew about the King, beyond the rumors he’d heard from the other slaves, came from a couple of magazine covers he’d seen on Bossman’s desk over the years, and they always called him M3.

“What about M3?”  Chaz winced as soon as he said it.  He hadn’t actually meant to say it out loud, but… Michael… didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m Michael Sweeney the Third,” the man said simply.  “That’s where the M3 comes from.  I’m heir to the Texas Senate seat.  My family owns the Southern Plantation in Georgia and Dixieland Ranch in East Texas.  Hence the media fetish for following me around and documenting my every move.”

“American royalty,” Staas said dryly.  “Inbred and bitchy.  Just like Auntie Belle!”

Whoa.  M3—no, *Michael’s*—family owned the Southern Plantation?  Fuck what Staas said, they *were* royalty.  Maybe there was no official king of the South or whatever, but even Chaz knew that the Southern Plantation was considered the crown jewel of Antebellum.

Chaz jerked as their ride came to a sudden halt, and the window separating the back of the car from the front rolled down, an elderly old black man in a fancy looking uniform flashing them a grin.  His front teeth were gold, and looked weird shining out of his salt and pepper beard, but he had an almost grandfatherly look about him, and for some reason Chaz liked him right away.  He sort of reminded him of the few old men at the stables who had actually been nice to him.

“We’re here, Mistah Sweeney,” he said in a heavy Southern accent, the kind that pretty much screamed that you came from the boondocks.  “And little Mistah Sweeney.  And big bo’, too.”  He winked at Chaz, and Chaz gave him a small smile.

“Thanks, Reggie,” Michael replied, opening the door and climbing out.

“Come on,” Staas said, tugging on his shirt sleeve again, and Chaz obediently crawled out, breath catching as he stepped into the rushing stream of people.

Almost immediately he bumped into someone, earning himself a “Watch it, fat ass,” from a short guy with a thick mustache and Hawaiian shorts. 

Chaz took a step back, walking right into a lady in a pink pantsuit who scowled furiously at him.  “Get out the way, idiot!”

“Sorry,” Chaz muttered, heart pounding as he tried his best to move away without running into anybody else.  There were just so many people!  “Sorry.”

“Ignore them,” Michael said shortly as he gestured for Chaz to follow him.  “It’s a Northern thing.  Where I come from, we know how to say, ‘excuse me.’  Everyone North of the Mason-Dixon line has a poor attitude.”

Personally, Chaz thought everyone South of the Mason-Dixon line had a superior attitude, at least if you judged by the stuck up slaves that were shipped from there, but he wasn’t about to say it to the king of Antebellum himself.  Hell, the less words he spoke to the ultimate master of pain, the better.

Chaz swallowed hard as he followed Staas and Michael through the steady stream of scowling pedestrians, up to the steps of a fancy looking hotel.  The building was certainly worthy of a king, a monolith of smooth, white stone with marble steps crowned with gigantic doors made of gold and glass.  A man wearing a funny suit with prominent silver buttons smiled at them as they climbed the steps, opening the door and holding it for them.

“Good evening, Sir Sweeney, sir,” the man said in an almost worshipful tone, and Michael nodded stiffly in his direction while Staas flashed him the middle finger.  Apparently this door guy was not on their friends list.  Chaz got a bit of an odd look as he followed them in, and he quickly looked away, not wanting any trouble.

Inside, the building looked a lot like the first floor of the building Chaz had spent the last few months in, only about a thousand times more luxurious.  There was plush carpet and gold accenting and shiny marble and antiqued woods everywhere.  Off to the far right, partially walled off, was a lounge area with a bar, a sign that said ‘Hopper’s Club’ hanging in front of it.  To the left was an ornate doorway that must have led somewhere wet, because there were stacks of towels in front, along with a rack of terry cloth roves.  The reception area itself was grandiose as well, with a huge cherrywood desk type thing that had gold piping running along the edges. 

Michael didn’t stop at the desk, heading straight for the elevators instead.  There was another man in a funny suit, and Michael greeted this one with a big smile.

“Howdy, Hank,” Michael said.

“Good evenin,’ sir,” the man replied, smiling back.  “Hey, Staas, how’s it goin’?”  He held out his hand for the boy to slap.  So door guy, bad list, elevator guy, good list.  Chaz wondered idly how you got onto the latter.

The elevator doors slid open, and the man stepped in, making a funny little bow.

As Chaz made to follow Michael and Staas into the elevator, the Hank guy’s arm went out, blocking his way, and he almost tripped avoiding it.  “This elevator’s for residents only.  Service elevator’s around the back, kid.  Make sure you check in with hotel security and get a badge.”

Staas laughed out loud and Michael made a sound of amusement as Chaz’s cheeks turned red.  “Actually, he’s with us, Hank,” Michael said, smiling at Chaz.

The man’s eyes widened, and he let out a short laugh.  “Aw, man, I’m sorry, kid,” he said, gesturing for Chaz to enter.  “Figured with the work clothes and all…”

“This is Chastity,” Staas said, squeezing Chaz’s bicep.  “He’s my new pet.”

Hank’s eyebrows went up, and Michael made an irritated sound as the elevator doors slid shut.

“He is *not* Staas’ new pet,” Michael said in a clipped tone.  “Chastity is simply staying with us for the night.”

“Uh-huh,” Staas said, a smirk on his face.  “Whatever you say, Dad.”

Chaz held his breath as the elevator climbed, trying hard to pretend he wasn’t literally elbow to elbow with King M3, boogeyman of slaves everywhere, heir to the freaking *Southern Plantation.*  How the *hell* had he gone from working in a factory to being chained in a bathroom to *this* in only  matter of months?  It seemed like his life just got worse and worse.  He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know what was next on the list.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably more like a few seconds, the elevator binged and the doors slid back open, allowing Chaz to breathe once again.  Of course, he was so focused on breathing, he forgot to move, and next thing he knew Michael was pressing gently on his back.

“Chastity, darling, you’re going to have to get off first,” Michael said in a voice like he was talking to a scared puppy.  Which, Chaz supposed, was a fairly accurate description.  “You’re blocking the door.”

Right.  Chaz stepped out, wrapping his arms around himself like they could protect him from the world.  If only he was so lucky.

The hallway was reminiscent of the lobby, lots of deep maroons and golds and whites with thick carpeting and door frames that the woodworker in Chaz could tell were carved by hand.

There were only two doors in the hall, one to either side of the elevator, and Michael made for the one on the right, pulling a keycard from his pocket and running it through the scanner.  It flashed green and the lock clicked opened, but Chaz stayed frozen in place in front of the elevator as it slid back shut, leaving him alone with only Michael and Staas. His heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure that if he moved too fast, he was going to puke.

“Coming, Chastity?” Michael called out, and Chaz held back a small whimper.

He couldn’t go in there.  He couldn’t.  Not with King M3.  He wouldn’t survive it, or worse, it would be so bad that he wouldn’t *want* to survive it.  Whippings and branding and beatings and cutting and bondage and torture and pain… Chaz remembered every tale like he’d heard them all yesterday.  Never in his whole life had he heard something good from a slave about King M3.  Not a single thing.  And now here he was, about to enter his home.

Okay, yeah, M3 had been nice enough up to now, but Chaz had seen Staas’ back and he heard them do sex… Besides, all of the stories couldn’t be wrong.  There had to be truth behind them.  Maybe this was just how the King worked, lulling slaves into complacency then attacking when they were at their weakest.  Or maybe it was some kind of sadistic game.  A lot of people had been pretty cruel to Chaz in the past, and they’d usually done it in tricky ways.  Shunning and hateful whispers and backhanded compliments that turned out to be cutting insults… The kind of things you didn’t expect.

Chaz could not go through that door.  He couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t.

Except… M3 was his master now, for all intents and purposes, and Chaz always did what his master said, no matter what.  He’d never broken that rule, not once in his whole life.  Nineteen years, he’d been the very best slave he could.  Honestly, he didn’t know how else to be.  So when Michael said come…

Tears rose up in his eyes as he took a lumbering step toward the man, almost tripping over his own feet.  A free man might know what to do in a situation like this, but Chaz was drawing a blank.  Just like it had never occurred to him to break the lock leashing him to the toilet, the concept of running or fighting or any sort of rebellion at all was simply beyond him, even though he was big enough and strong enough to get away if he really wanted.

Sometimes it really sucked being good boy.

The distance from the elevator to the suite door was much too short, and Chaz was there before he knew it, sniffling pitifully as he stared at his new master.

Michael was watching him with a strange look on his face, a look Chaz couldn’t define, not through the shimmer of his unshed tears, and after a moment he let out a sigh.

“Chastity, what exactly have you heard about me?” Michael asked, leaning against the door and crossing his arms over his chest.

Chaz ducked his head, dropping his eyes down to the man’s perfectly shined shoes, the only part of King M3 he was used to seeing.

“Nothing that matters, Master,” he said softly, putting his arms behind his back and shuffling his feet until they were squared up, the only way he knew to show that he was trying to be respectful.  His eyes locked on his old, scuffed up boots.  They hadn’t even been new when he got them.  Talk about a total opposite from M3’s spotless, gleaming saddle shoes.  Hell, it was almost poetic.

There was some soft murmuring that Chaz couldn’t quite catch, then the door to the suite opened and closed.  For one beautiful second he thought they’d decided to leave him in the hallway, but then Michael’s shoes reappeared in his limited range of vision, and Chaz’s stomach flip flopped.  A hand came down on the side of his face, making him flinch ever so slightly.

“Chastity, look at me.”

The words were most definitely an order, and Chaz slowly lifted his head, forcing himself to meet Michael’s eyes.  The were startlingly dark, his eyes, to the point that they almost looked black, and Chaz could see himself reflected in them.  A big, dumb oversized labor slave with a sandpapery chin, messy hair, and frightened eyes.  What possible use could a man like King M3 have for him?  Chaz couldn’t imagine one, which meant that he was expendable, and expendable slaves didn’t last long.

“I do realize that I have a certain… reputation when it comes to training slaves.”  M3’s words were clipped and businesslike.  “But I start my slaves young, very young, much younger than you, and even if you were that age, you are not the kind of slave that I train.”  He held up a hand, as if Chaz might protest, which was absolutely insane.  He was perfectly happy not to be the kind of slave the King trained.  Except, if he wasn’t the kind of slave Michael wanted, then what would happen to him?  “Not that you aren’t absolutely perfect for the jobs you *were* trained for.  You are simply not the kind of slave that I devote my time to.”

So, basically, M3 had just confirmed the fact that he was expendable.  Chaz had to resist the sudden urge to laugh out of sheer panic.

“All I ask of you is that you be respectful and obedient in my home.  One Staas in my life is enough, thank you very much, but from what I have seen so far, this will not be a problem for you.  I have no interest in abusing you, and as long as you are polite and compliant, I do not foresee having to punish you in any way, do you understand me?”

Chaz swallowed hard enough to make his adam’s apple bob.  Did he understand?  He supposed he did, though he found Michael’s words hard to believe.  But he could do respectful and obedient, and polite and complaint, too.  Hell, those words practically defined him.  And maybe, just maybe, Michael was telling the truth.  The tales of King M3 hadn’t been specific as to what *kind* of slaves he ripped apart, so maybe Chaz really wasn’t his type.  Maybe he really had no interest in hurting him at all.

It was as good as he was going to get, so Chaz forced himself to nod.  “Yes, Mr. Michael, sir,” he said in a strained voice, dropping his eyes again.  “I’ll be very good, sir.”  Very, very, *very* good.  Hell, good didn’t cover it.  Chaz was going to be *perfect.*  Anything to stay on this man’s good side.

“Alright, then,” Michael said, and Chaz felt a squeeze on his arm.  “Come on inside, then, and we’ll get you all settled in.”


	5. Bitches and Stitches

The phone rang.  And rang.  And rang.

Ward let out a soft curse, yanking the mostly spent cigarette from his lips and putting it out on Sweeney’s prissy face.  Not on his actual face, unfortunately, but on the one smirking up at him from the family portrait propped up on the man’s desk.  Ward used his newly freed hand to palm at his bare dick while hitting the redial button on the cell phone, scowling as it continued to ring and ring and ring and ring.

God, he missed the days when you could actually slam phones down onto receivers.  Now that was some cathartic shit.

After an hour of yuppy sucking at the meet and greet, Ward had finally made it into his new office, only to discover a cheap burner phone in his top drawer and still-damp ejaculate all over his desk.  He was fairly sure that the latter was a gift from a certain blonde boy with an affection for dumping laxatives into cafeteria food, though he wasn't totally discounting that Jonas geek, either.  The burner phone, on the other hand…

Ward palmed his dick a little harder, doing his best to ignore the discomfort of his rough palm against the dry flesh of his shaft.  So he got a little wanker’s rash—it would be worth it to see the look on Sweeney’s face when he realized that someone had jizzed all over his fancy office chair.  The chair that Ward was fairly certain had been filched from his new digs, considering that the dinky seater behind his desk looked like it belonged in a kindergarten story circle, not a corner office.  He wet his lips with his tongue, fantasizing about the way Michael’s mouth would curl up in horror, crow’s feet appearing around his eyes, making him look twice as old as the early thirty-something Ward knew that he was, a cry of disgust coming from that arrogant, pricksucking throat… Shit, that was the most arousing image Ward had seen since the July issue of ‘Toned and Boned.’

The ringing cut off, and Ward hit the speed dial for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.  Or was it the twentieth time in twelve cigarettes?  Seriously, what kind of sorry ass, John Grisham wannabe had he gotten himself wrapped up with?  Burner phones dropped secretly at the office with cryptic notes that instructed him to ‘Speed dial 9 at 11:00 or face the consequences’?  If this Masked Master had expected to send a shiver down Ward's spine with his creepy World Trade Center references, he had really missed his mark.  Ward was a true blue New Yorker, and all it did was royally piss him off.  Though if the fucker was interested, Ward would be happy to treat him to a certain gay-terrorist-approved interrogation tactic involving shoving a hand grenade up the jerkwad’s unstretched, unlubricated anus then pulling the pin with his motherfucking teeth.  Actually, this jerkwad wasn't the only one he'd enjoy doing that to...  


 Too busy imagining Michael Sweeney’s prissy ass exploding all over the place to notice that the phone had stopped ringing, Ward actually jumped when an electronically masked voice came over the line.  “Hello, Jacobs.  We have instructions for you.”

Okay, somebody had spent way too much of their childhood watching _Law and Order: Special Victims Unit_.  Who did the Master think he was, Deep Throat’s illegitimate child?  Didn’t this loser know there was no such thing as picking a criminal out from a vocal lineup?  What an a-hole.

“Call me Bond,” Ward said.  “James Bond.”  He paused, feigning nervousness.  “Please tell me that this phone isn’t set to explode in three minutes.  I left the bomb squad in my other pants.”

There was a moment of silence--probably the fucker at the other end of the line wasn’t quite sure to say to that--then the voice spoke again, still sounding like Darth Vader meets discotheque.

“We have instructions for you.”

Apparently there was a script, and this guy was sticking to it.  Well fuck that, Ward was more of an improv kind of guy himself.  “‘We,’ huh?” he said, returning his free hand to his dick.  Couldn’t let these clowns distract him from his number one mission of making Michael Sweeney shriek like Orphan Annie trapped in a whorehouse.  “So that’s why the ‘Master’ is always fully ‘Masked,’ eh?  You got yourself a second person growing out the back of your head like Voldemort, so you’ve started dressing like a leather daddy to keep on the down low.  Makes sense, except you have to know that a fag like Dumbledore hangs out at all those kinky clubs, handing out lemon drops and roofies to the twinks.  I saw the porno.  ‘Hairy Fucker and the Search for the Headmaster’s Stones.’  Now that there is some damn fine cinema.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and for a second Ward thought that maybe, just maybe, the bastard had decided working with him wasn’t worth the effort, but then the Automated Asshole spoke again.  “Your former slave tells me that I should forgive your disrespectful babbling.  He says that your crude wit is merely a coping mechanism, the manner in which you deal with stress.”

“How insightful of him,” Ward said, rolling his eyes.

“*Are* you feeling stressed, Ward?”

Stressed?  What could be possibly feel stressed about?  It wasn’t as if he was being blackmailed into corporate espionage or anything.  “Under normal circumstances I would be,” Ward said casually, “considering that I’m sitting in the middle of King M3’s cubicle, stroking my dick with a CC TV cam pointed my way.  Exhibitionism is a stressful life choice, especially when you’re on your third strike and don’t know if you’ll make bail this time around.  But with what goes down in these offices, I figure I’m more likely to get a raise than a pink slip.  So, nah, I ain’t too stressed.”

The silence was even longer this time, and Ward’s mouth turned up in dark amusement.  Aw, was poor wittle Bad Guy’s super secret plan not turning out as wicked awesome as he had expected?  Was his wittle script falling apart?  Well, cry him a river.  Ward was not one to bend over and touch his toes just because some lunatic in a leather hood yanked out his prick.  No bitches here.

“This is not a joke, Jacobs,” Dr. Evil finally said.  “We have been very generous, offering you a second chance with your slave.  However, if you fuck it up, I guarantee that you will never see your precious boy again.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up now!” Ward said.  “What’s with the f-bomb?  Don’t you know that Disney villains can’t talk like that?  You need to keep it PG or little Mary Jane won’t be able to find out who saved the disabled princess from the big, bad—“

Ward was interrupted as a loud scream exploded from the phone, and a very real, very familiar voice began to beg.

“Don’t, please, don’t!  Oh, God, I can’t—AAAAH!”

“Prance?” Ward shouted, pushing away from Sweeney’s desk so abruptly that the chair actually spun him around in a circle.  “Prance, are you okay?  Prance?!”

“Please, please, please, master… I can’t—NO!”

Ward slammed a fist furiously against a small filing cabinet, demolishing a magnet shaped like a kitten and knocking a picture of Staas in a rather revealing bathing suit to the floor.  “Don’t you fucking dare hurt him!”

“Too late.”

Disney Villain was back, and Ward wanted nothing more but to grab him by his cartoonish neck and choke the fucking life out of him and his fairy godmother, too.  How dare the bastard hurt his boy?!

“What do you want from me?” Ward said through gritted teeth, no longer interested in playing.  Hearing his boy’s desperate screams sort of took the fun out of things.

“As I said, we have instructions for you.  Tomorrow, when Michael Sweeney returns to work, you will begin making moves to seduce him.”

“Whoa, hold your horses, Tonto.  What did you just say?”  Surely he had misheard that last part.  It *was* rather difficult to make out anything over the pounding of his heart.

“I said that you will make moves to seduce Mr. Sweeney.  You both have homosexual proclivities, so this should not be a problem.”

“Right,” Ward said, really, really wanting to punch something.  But there was already one kitten in colorful pieces on the floor thanks to his fist.  And one slave boy without working limbs thanks to his temper.  “Because that’s all it takes, right?  Two dicks who like dicks in the same room?  You seriously want me to fuck Sweeney?”

“No,” the voice said, sounding as if they were talking to a toddler.  “I want you to seduce him.  Take him out to dinner.  Learn his habits.  Gain his trust.  When you have accomplished that, we will contact you again.”

Ward sat back, letting out a humorless laugh.  “Oh yeah, I can see that.  Me and King M3, holding hands at Donny’s Subs, feeding each other bites of pastrami from our paper plates and sipping box wine.  You have got to be shitting me.  Look, even if I could stand being in the same room as the man for more than two minutes at a time, do you really think a guy like him would date a guy like me?  Fuck, I’m old enough to be his dad—“

“Only if you fathered him at thirteen.”

“Like I said, I’m old enough to be his dad, and I sure as hell ain’t no beauty queen, especially compared to a sex pot like Cocksucker Lips.  We have zip, zero, nada in common, and I’m pretty sure he has about as much respect for me as I have for him, which is to say none at all.  How in the hell am I supposed to--God it hurts to even say this--‘seduce him’?”

“Marketing is your business.  I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Was Ward just imagining it, or was there a hint of sadistic amusement in the electronic tone?  Nah, it wasn't his imagination.  This fucker was definitely getting his rocks off over this.

Ward’s face heated up, anger washing over him.  “Look, I agreed to be a part of this crazy scheme, whatever the purpose is, on the understanding that you wanted an inside man at Zenith.  I planted the seed in Don’s head to hire my ass, I played hard to get so no one would suspect what I’d done, then I took the damn job knowing full well that I was likely throwing my career away on this shitload of a campaign.  I did my part.  But no one said *anything* about sucking some prissy socialite’s tiny dick.  A guy’s got to draw the line somewhere, and fondling M3’s wee wee for your entertainment is where I put down my mark.”

Whatever equipment the bastard was using to mask the tone of his voice did nothing to hide his sigh.  “Ward, do we really have to remind you of the consequences should you choose to defy us?” he asked, sounding more like an actual human being than he had the entire conversation.  Ward had a feeling that they’d gone off script.  “Your young invalid here is rather worn out from all the screaming. I hate to irritate his throat any further considering how talented he is with his mouth, but I am willing to take the risk.”

Ward swallowed down the lump in his throat and fumbled mindlessly for his Marlboro’s, clutching the pack like a baby with its binky.  Damn this bastard.  He deserved to be road kill on the highway to hell.  

“Fine,” Ward said after a long moment, his voice clipped.  Apparently he was a bitch after all.  “I’ll fucking do it.  Or I’ll try, anyway.  Maybe play the ‘opposites attract’ card, or see if I can win a date in a bet?  I don’t think he’ll go for the 'dirty boss gets down with eager employee slut' con—he enjoys being the boss too much—but maybe I can turn his schoolboy fetish around on him by offering to fuck his wannabe-son.  Or I could stroke his ego with the old ‘desperate for attention, can’t keep my eyes off of a pretty young thing like you’ routine.  I dunno.  I’ll think of something."  He let out a loud sigh.  "I hope Prance appreciates the fact that I’m selling my goddamn soul for his sorry ass.”

“I’m sure he does,” the voice said, sounding amused again.  “Almost as much as he appreciated being flung down the stairs like a ragdoll all those years ago.  Howard Jacobs: Liar, pervert, slave beater, manipulator, whore… What’s not to appreciate about a man like you?  You are truly one of a kind.”

With those words the line went dead, and Ward was left sitting in the dark at M3’s desk, clutching a pack of cigarettes to his chest with his dick hanging out of his khakis, limp and useless.  Oh yeah, he was one of a kind, all right.

o o o

Staas stared down at the steaming plate, lips curled back in disgust.  “But Daddy, I don’t want to eat it!”

“Don’t ‘but, Daddy’ me,” Michael snapped as he towered over his slave, who was laying naked on the floor next to the plate, hands expertly bound to his feet in a way that left absolutely no chance of escape.  Not that any slave would dare to run from the great King M3.  “Put your fucking face in it and eat!  I want Chastity to see what happens when very bad boys do very bad things that plug up the plumbing of entire buildings.”

Chaz flinched at the sound of his name, covering his face with his hands and sniffling.  This was all his fault.  He should have kept his big, stupid mouth shut, and this never would have happened.

Staas turned his face so that his big blue eyes were staring up at his master.  His voice came out whiny and shrill.  “But it’s disgusting!”

“You should have thought about that before,” Michael said, running the fancy looking bullwhip in his hand across the boy’s naked side.  “Now eat!”

Chaz flinched and tried not to whimper as the whip cracked in the air, barely missing Staas’ side.  The sound seemed to echo, even in the enormous suite, and Chaz blinked back tears as sensory memories began to flood his mind, making him feel shaky and light headed.  

The bitter sound of breaking glass.  Bossman’s furious screams.  Rough hands dragging him along the floor.  Clothes ripped from his body.  Cold metal around his wrists.  The squeak of the pulley as he was dragged into the air.  The steamy factory air against his naked boy parts.  The feeling of helplessness as sweat ran down from his curls into his eyes and he couldn’t wipe it away.  Bossman’s basred teeth, white and terrifying.  The crack of the whip as he tested the weight.  And then the pain, the endless, terrible pain…

“Please, please, Daddy, I’m sorry!” Staas whined, somehow managing to roll around on the floor like an angry toddler, despite being hogtied.  “Please don’t make me eat it!”

Michael’s cold expression didn’t waver, and Chaz wrapped his arms around himself, trying to protect his body from a chill he couldn’t actually feel.

“Put your fucking face in it and eat,” Michael said in a low, dangerous voice, “or I am going to whip the skin from your body.”

Chaz trembled, burying his face in his knees.  How could he have done this to Staas?  The boy already had so many marks, more even than Chaz had.  And Chaz was way bigger.  How many more marks could Staas take?  He was already completely covered on his back and his thighs—would Michael whip him on his front instead?  Destroy what little pale, perfect skin he had left?  All over some stupid joke Chastity hadn’t even meant?  It wasn’t right.  Staas didn’t deserve this.  He was a pleasure slave.  They were soft and pretty and delicate, not big and strong and able to fight back like Chaz.  Michael could put Staas down with one blow—he didn’t need to whip him to remind of how much stronger he was, not like Bossman did with the big factory boys.  This shouldn’t be happening—wouldn’t be happening if Chaz had kept his stupid mouth shut!

“Do it, Staas!” Michael commanded, and Chaz flinched at the anger behind the words.  Why didn’t Staas just obey?  Chaz would have put anything in his mouth to wipe that look off the King’s face.  Hell, he’d have shoved his face in a plate of his own shit and licked it clean with a smile to get those dark, furious eyes off of him.

“Fuck off and die, Daddy.”

The look on Michael’s face was the most terrifying thing that Chaz had ever seen in his life, and he’d seen some pretty scary stuff.  Staas wasn’t just going to get himself whipped, he was going to get himself *killed.*

Chaz whimpered, pressing himself harder against the wall, as if he could disappear into it.  How had things gotten so very bad so very fast?  At least at the factory the punishments fit the crime.  You act out or break something expensive and you get whipped.  But you didn’t get punished for refusing to eat your dinner.  Sometimes you got punished with *no* dinner, but you definitely didn’t get whipped for not being hungry.

Of course, this really wasn’t about Staas not being hungry, was it?  This was about Chaz’s stupid joke.

When Chaz had first entered King M3’s suite, it actually hadn't seemed so bad.  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—some kind of crazy dungeon or something?—but all he’d found was white carpet and pale pink furnishings and gold curtains, no whipping posts or implements of torture to be found.

Staas had immediately collapsed onto one of the fancy sofas, not even bothering to remove his dirty Nikes before propping his feet up on some obviously expensive beaded pillows, while Michael had wandered off to ‘wiggle into something a little more comfortable.’  Chaz had hovered awkwardly by the door for a few minutes before removing his work boots and kneeling down on the floor off to the side, bowing his head in what he hoped was a respectful, sophisticated way.

Apparently he’d made the right choice, because Michael had seemed pleased when he returned from the bedroom dressed in burgundy silk pajamas bottoms and a black robe, his usually slicked back hair wet and tousled from the shower.  He’d praised Chaz for not tracking dirt on the carpet and for taking a place where he could ‘service without being seen,’ whatever that meant.  And then came the big question: What should they have to eat?

Why, why, why had Chaz not kept his big mouth shut?  Obviously being chained to that toilet all alone for so long had left him much too desperate for attention, because he had been an idiot for speaking at all.  It was no business of his what he did or did not eat, and it was certainly not his place to *joke* with the master.  But it was like someone else had taken over his mouth, and Chaz had found himself saying:

“Staas really seems to like laxatives, sir.”

Chaz had flinched immediately, expecting a cuff to the head at the very least, possibly even an all out beating for his impertinence, but instead Michael had erupted into laughter while Staas screeched angrily, yelling something about how Daddy better not even think about it.

Next thing Chaz knew, Staas was lying naked on the floor next to a plate of Mexican food dusted with laxatives and Michael was standing over the slave with his whip, looking like some kind of terrible god of death.  And it was all Chaz’s fault.

“I.  Am.  Not.  Eating.  That.” Staas practically hissed, baring his teeth at Michael and making a sad attempt to lunge in the man’s direction, despite being tied hand to foot.  Michael just laughed derisively, as if Staas was the most pathetic thing he’d ever seen in his life, and cracked the whip again, coming within centimeter’s of the boy’s flesh this time.

Chaz couldn’t contain his whimpers anymore.  Michael was going to rip Staas apart, all because he couldn’t keep his fat mouth shut.

If it were any other punishment, Chaz probably wouldn’t have cared.  Okay, he would have cared, but he wouldn’t have dared to question his master’s judgement, either.  He would have simply accepted that Michael had a right to punish Staas however he wanted for whatever he wanted, no matter how horrible the result or how stupid the infraction.  But Chaz knew what it felt like to be whipped.  He understood what it was like in a way no freeman ever could.  It wasn’t like being hit with a belt or a cane or even with something as harsh as an electrical cord.  Whips were different, and not in a good way.

Crafted to be a tool of pain, whips were carefully braided and weighted to cause the most damage with the least effort.  The reason they cracked was because they moved so fast it broke the sound barrier, and they could cut through work toughened flesh, hard muscle, and lean tendons all the way to the bone with only a flick of the master’s wrist.  The sensation when they laid the skin open was beyond description.   You had to feel it to truly understand the depth of the pain.  It was a burn and a sting and a bruise and a welt and a break all at the same time, in the same place, concentrated into one, single cut.  But it never happened just once.  No, one single cut was never enough, even if it felt like your entire body was being assaulted every time the whip came down.  It was always many, at least ten, sometimes twenty or thirty or even a hundred.  Though a slave who’d been condemned to a hundred lashes wasn’t truly expected to survive.  A hundred lashes was a sentence of death.  

Chaz had received only twenty lashes the time he broke the glass, but he hadn’t been sure he would survive even that.  He’d felt like he was dying.  They had made him count to make sure he didn’t pass out, with the promise that they would start again from the beginning if he slipped up, and so he hadn’t drifted away, he hadn’t died, but the utter agony had certainly killed something inside of him.  Not to mention the humiliation of knowing that all his fellow slaves, the ones who called him 'masterlover' and made fun of him for touching Bossman’s thing, were watching as the tears rolled down his cheeks and he cried like a scared little boy.  Nothing was as bad as the whip.

Michael let out a sigh, kicking Staas lightly in the side with his bare foot.  “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?  All you had to do was sit down at the table, pick up your fork, and eat the enchiladas like a good boy.  But no, instead you had to throw a fit, and *now* look at where you are.”

“Even if that hunk of beans wasn’t a first class ticket to the shits, I wouldn’t eat it,” Staas snapped.  “Sad Yankee excuse for enchiladas!”

Chaz felt a jolt of fear race through him.  Why was Staas doing this?  Was he out of his mind?!  Who cared about getting the shits?  He had the same kind of scars that Chaz did—he knew the tortures of the whip.  Why didn’t he just give in?  What was wrong with him?  Didn’t he know that Chaz would have to live with the guilt forever if Staas got hurt because of him?

Michael shook his head.  “Fine.  Your choice.”  He raised the whip and Staas cowered back, his so-pretty lips turning up as he prepared for the blow.

“No!” Chaz shouted, launching himself from against the wall before he had time to question his sanity, blocking the smaller slave’s body with his own.  Tears spilled out of his eyes as the whip found his shoulder, slicing through fabric and flesh like it was sun softened butter.  He managed not to scream at the sudden, horrible pain, but he couldn’t hold back the sob that wracked his chest, making it heave like he’d just run a mile, or stop more tears from running down his cheeks.

The pain was sharp and brutal, a burn and a throb and a pound and a million other adjectives that Chaz was too light headed to come up with at the moment.  He collapsed onto the floor at Michael’s feet, having just enough thought power left to roll onto his uninjured side in an attempt to keep the blood running out of the wound from spilling onto the white carpet, which would no doubt soak the hot liquid up like a kitchen sponge, never to come out again.  It was no good, though—the wound was too deep and there was too much blood.  It ran straight down his chest and onto the floor.

“Chastity!” Staas cried out, wriggling against his restraints as he tried to move toward the bigger boy.  “Dad, get me out of these!”

Chaz buried his face in the carpet, trying to hide his tears.  What the hell had he just done?  Michael had every right to whip Staas all the way to death if that was what he wanted.  Chaz certainly had no right to try and stop it, even if it was his fault it was happening at all.  Now they would both be punished, probably much worse than Michael had originally planned, and all Chaz had succeeded in was proving what a terrible slave he was.  He had let his emotions take control of him, the memories of his whipping by Bossman so fresh in his mind, even after all these years, that he’d made a fool of himself trying to chase them away.

A hand brushed his cheek, and Chaz flinched, wanting, but not daring, to pull away.  He was in enough trouble as it was—all he could do now was pray that he survived whatever punishment the King had in store for him.  A good slave would stay still and silent, acknowledging that it deserved whatever was coming to it, but…

“Please, master,” he whimpered, voice coming out small and pitiful.  Which is exactly what he was next to this powerful man.  “Please master, don’t whip me.  Anything but the whip.  Anything, anything, *anything* but the whip.”

“Dear Lord Almighty,” Michael murmured, and Chaz held back a cry as strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a sitting position and then grabbed his left hand, guiding it over to the still bleeding cut on his right shoulder and pressing it it tightly against the wound. Chaz obediently clutched at it, though wasn’t sure why.  It was hard to think with the word 'whip,' 'whip,' 'whip' echoing in his mind.  “Chastity, pet, hold that there, okay?  I’m going to untie Staas, then we’ll look at the wound.  Nobody is going to whip you tonight.  Understand?”

Chaz blinked stupidly, tears slowing.  Had he heard the master correctly?  No whip?  No whip tonight?  “Y-yes, master,” he managed to choke out, though his heart was still pounding madly.

“Fucking knots,” Michael muttered from behind him as Chaz stared off at nothing, feeling too lightheaded to even try and figure out what was happening.  “There.  Staas, go get the medical kit.”

“Yes, master,” Staas said briskly, and Chaz noted in some fuzzy part of his brain that it was the first time he’d ever heard the other slave call Michael that.

Michael was staring down at him with an unreadable expression—not that the man was ever particularly readable—and Chaz dropped his eyes, not wanting to seem disrespectful.  Not that it got much more disrespectful than launching yourself in front of a master’s whip to protect another slave.

Staas dropped down on his knees next to Michael, holding some kind of small, red suitcase, and the master popped it open with practiced ease, pulling out a bottle of clear liquid, some bandages, and what looked like… a sewing kit?

Chastity tensed, fear flooding his senses.  What it the world could Michael possibly need a sewing kit for?  Certainly not Chaz’s ruined shirt, which was covered in blood.  When he’d said ‘anything but the whip,’ he’d been thinking that there was nothing in the world worse than being whipped, but he’d forgotten who he was talking to.  Michael was the ultimate professional, known throughout the country for his colorfully perverse methods of breaking slaves.  If anyone could find something worse than the whip, it was him.

“Wh-what’s that for?” Chaz stuttered, then immediately pursed his lips together and dropped his head in shame.  What was he doing, talking to the master like that, all familiar?  That was what had gotten him in this mess to begin with!  He couldn’t imagine what he looked like to this sophisticated trainer... like the slave version of a heathen, perhaps.  A big, slobbering fool of a slave, dragging his knuckles and mouthing off to his betters.

“The whip cut you fairly deep, Chastity,” Michael replied, answering the question he knew better than to have asked with an only slightly chastising tone.  “Once the bleeding slows, we may have to stitch you up.  If so, Staas can do it.  He has a lot of experience with a needle, so it shouldn’t scar too badly.”

“St-stitch me up?” Chaz said, beginning to shake at the thought.  “He’s gonna sew on me?  Is th-this my punishment?”

Michael looked at him strangely.  “Sew on you?  What are you—“

“Master, may I?” Staas interrupted, as psychotically brave as ever, and Michael made a soft sound of affirmation, sitting back a little so that Staas could lean in, cupping Chaz’s face between his soft hands.  “Chasity, nobody’s going to… sew on you, not in whatever crazy way you’re obviously imagining.  Stitches are what doctors use to hold together deep wounds so the skin heals up good.  It’s possible you might need stitches.  The whip that Daddy hit you with can easily cut right to the bone if you don’t throw it right.”

Chaz swallowed down the lump in his throat, blinking back tears.  He would *not* cry again.  He was a good slave, not a stupid cry baby.  “I… I know it can.”

“You knew and you still jumped in front of it?” Michael said, the stark disbelief in his voice making Chaz cower a little.  “What were you thinking, boy?”

Chaz sniffled, looking up at the man.  Or down at him, technically, since they were both on their knees and Chaz was taller.  But it simply didn’t seem right to say he looked “down at” a master.  Especially not one like King M3.  Chaz belonged on his knees.  Michael belonged on a throne.  “I didn’t want Staas to get whipped, sir,” he said, well aware how miserable he sounded. 

Michael’s eyes narrowed.  “Chastity, pet, you don’t have the right to question a freeman’s actions like that.  Did they not teach you that at the factory?  That a freeman’s actions aren’t your responsibility to moderate or correct?  Freemen make their own choices.  Slaves must honor those choices, if not with open support then at least with respectful silence.  That is part of what being a slave is.”

Chaz wasn’t entirely sure what it meant to “moderate” someone, but he understood what the King meant.  “Yes, master, they taught me that, sir.  I know I was wrong.  I… I’m a bad slave.  But I just felt so guilty.”

“What in the world did you have to feel guilty for?” Michael asked as Staas removed the gauze he’d been holding to Chaz’s wound and began to prod gently at the skin, making the bigger boy wince.

“If I hadn’t joked about the laxatives, you wouldn’t have tried to make Staas eat them, and Staas wouldn’t have gotten whipped.”

Staas let out a short laugh, and Michael rubbed his temples, the little wrinkles that appeared sometimes around his eyes making him looking older again, and leaving Chaz to ponder once more whether the man was a very youthful forty or a very world worn thirty.

“Oh, sweetie pie,” Michael said after a moment, his usually crisp, businesslike voice gone soft and Southern, the words sounding thick on his tongue.  “You've got a heart of gold, child, and an innocence that shines like diamonds.  Just the sort of loot that the devil loves to steal.”

Chaz furrowed his brow, not sure what that even meant, much less whether or not it was a good thing. 

Staas must have seen his confusion, because he said, “What Daddy is trying to say is that there were no laxatives in the food, Chastity.  It was just beans and tortillas and chili sauce.  That’s all.”

“Why in the world would I want to induce a load of shit out of my favorite slut?” Michael said, his voice back to normal, as he reached out and gave Staas a proprietary pat on the buttocks.  “No amount of douching would have been enough to clean that out by tonight, and then where would I be?  It was just a game, Chastity.  We were playing a game.”

Okay, now Chaz was more confused than ever.  Just a game?  Games were supposed to be fun, and Chaz didn’t see anything fun about being hogtied naked on the floor with an angry master looming over him, whip in hand.

Without warning Staas pressed down on Chaz’s cut with a wet cloth, making it burn and sting.  He didn’t know much about medical stuff, but he was pretty sure the scent he was smelling was alcohol.  The medicine man had used it on his whip marks back then.  Chaz hadn’t been sure what it was supposed to do—the medicine man hadn’t bothered to tell him—but he knew that it hadn’t stopped the wounds from pulling apart every time he swung a hammer or lifted a box, nor had it kept away the filthy yellow drip that risen up from inside the skin and brought teeth cracking shivers in the night.

Chaz sniffled at the horrible memories, then called up all the courage he had.  He didn’t really want to open his mouth around Michael right now, or possibly ever again, but he had to know.  “Master Sweeney, may I… I mean, may this slave ask Sir a question?”

“Of course, Chastity,” Michael said.  “Ask away.”

Chaz bit his lip, trying his best to fight back the tears that were trying to rise again.  He wasn’t a baby.  He wouldn’t cry.  They were just memories.  Only they could be reality again.  Would be, if this mark was anything like the ones on his back.  “Will it get the yellow drip?”

“The yellow—“ Michael made a face, looking a little disgusted, and Chaz instantly dropped his head, praying he wasn’t about to get hit.  “No, Chastity.  The yellow… drip… is infection.  When bacteria gets into the wound.  We’ll make sure it doesn’t get infected.  It may hurt to move your shoulder for awhile, but you should be feeling much better in just a couple of days.  That’s what the alcohol is for.”

Chaz wanted to say that they’d used the alcohol on him before and he’d *still* gotten the drip, but he couldn’t correct the master.  It wasn’t a slave’s place.  He would just have to wait and see.

“It doesn’t look too bad, Daddy,” Staas said.  “It didn’t go much deeper than the first layer of skin, but since it’s on the shoulder it probably needs a few stitches—tape won’t be able to hold it there.  Too much movement.”

Chaz hadn’t thought he could get much more afraid than he already was, but the idea of someone sewing up his skin was simply sickening.

“Dammit, he’s bleeding again,” Staas muttered.  “I must have scared him, sped up his heart.”

“Chastity, stand up,” Michael ordered, and Chaz nodded, climbing to his feet obediently even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.  “Hold the bandage on your arm, just like that… good boy.  Now follow me.”

Chaz kept his eyes on the ground, head completely bowed, as he followed Michael’s feet across the living room, into a bedroom almost as big as the sitting area, then through one more door into the largest bathroom Chaz had ever seen in his life.  

Great, he was back at the toilet.  What a life.

“Get in the tub,” Michael ordered, and Chaz obeyed, though it looked less like a tub and more like a marble pond to him.  “Now let’s get this shirt off of you… I’ll hold the bandage for just a second.. There you go, that’s a good boy.  You are a good boy, aren’t you, pet?”

“Yes, master?” Chaz said, grimacing a little when the words came out as more of a question than a statement.  It felt nice, being told he was good, but he was pretty sure that he wasn’t.  He wouldn’t be sitting half naked in a bathtub bleeding all over the place if he was.  Good boys didn’t end up in situations like this.  Good boys did their work and followed their orders and kept their big mouths shut.

“That’s right,” Michael murmured, reaching out and running his fingers through Chaz’s curls.  “Somebody needs a haircut.”  He ran a hand down his cheek.  “And maybe a shave.”

Chaz couldn’t help but smile at that, though it wobbled a little.  “It’s been awhile since I was lasered, master.”

“Well, that’s to be expected considering you were stuck in that awful bathroom.  I’m sorry that I couldn’t take you out of there, pet.  I’m not usually the sort of man to put up with that kind of nonsense, but this job is very important to me, and I couldn’t risk losing it over one slave.  I wanted to.”

“Of course not, master,” Chaz said, shocked by the mere idea that Michael had even considered taking him out of the bathroom, much less considered risking his position to do it.

“I know I said in the car that I have no plans to train you, but…”  Michael frowned, the little wrinkles appearing again.  “You're obviously a good boy, Chaz.  Too good to be sold off with no idea of what to do, accidentally making enemies of your fellow slaves and pissing off your masters when you decide to fling yourself about like a knight in shining armor.”

Chaz’s brow furrowed at the words.  “Wait... Does that mean... Is Staas mad at me, sir?”

A chuckle came from behind Michael, and Staas seemed to appear out of nowhere, a pair of thin, white gloves on his slender hands.  “Nah, he didn’t mean me, puppy dog.  I don’t hold grudges.  Okay, I do, but not against pitiful kids who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.  He just means that, thanks to your oafish ass, we’re both going to be punished for tonight, punished for real, not some stupid Taco Bell nonsense.  In a different household, that could make you some enemies for life.”  He knelt down on the edge of the tub, a little white tube in his hand.  “This is a numbing agent.  It’s going to make it so that it doesn’t hurt when I put the stitches is.  You’ll still be able to feel them, but the way you feel things when you’ve spent a winter's night out in the freezing cold.”

“He’s not from Russia, Staas,” Michael said with a small smile.  “I doubt he’s had that experience.  Do you understand what he means, Chastity?”

“It gets cold in the slave stables sometimes, sir,” Chaz said, hoping it was an okay answer.  It didn’t technically contradict what he’d said, after all.  “And if you don't want to fight for a blanket, sometimes you stop being able to feel your toes real good.”  "Right," Michael murmured, shaking his head in a way Chaz didn't really understand.  Almost like he was disgusted, but by what?  The fact that Chaz didn't always feel like fighting other boys just for a stupid blanket?  "Of course.  Fucking factories and their constant cutbacks."

Chaz grimaced at the sting when Staas first applied the cool cream, then relaxed as the burning sensation began to fade, taking much of the pain with it.

“Wow… That’s cool…”

“And now, I’m going to stitch you up,” Staas said.  “It’s probably best if you don’t watch.  Daddy?”

“Close your eyes, Chastity,” Michael said, reaching out and sliding the boy’s eyelids down with his thumbs, then resting his palms lightly atop them.  “That’s a good boy.  Don’t forget to breathe.”

Chaz gritted his teeth, readying himself for the sting of the needle piercing his flesh, but instead there was a pressing sensation, a weird sort of tug on his skin, and that was it.  

“Good boy,” Michael praised, and Chaz felt his cheeks warm at the words.  “Look at you, big and strong *and* brave.  Saying this is almost painful considering what a perverted menace he is, but Jacobs is right.  We’ll have no problem selling product as good as you.  Just a few more minutes and Staas will be done.”

By the time Michael removed his hands from Chaz’s face, freeing the slave to open his eyes once more, he was feeling warm and a little light headed.  It had been a long, long time since anyone had praised him like that.

Maybe belonging to King M3 wasn’t so bad after all.

“Okay, now that we’ve fixed you all up, it’s time to remind you what happens when you decide to take master’s matters into your own hands.”

Or maybe not.


End file.
